


A Dangerous Thing

by OswinWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidlock, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, fits with canon mostly, lot's of relationship issues, mostly plot, sort of incest but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OswinWatson/pseuds/OswinWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sat on the bed next to Mycroft and stared at him for a half second, before closing the gap between their mouths, and brushing a delicate kiss onto his brother’s lips. He pulled back almost immediately, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. </p><p>Sherlock moved to get up, muttering something about heading to bed, when Mycroft laid a hand on his arm to stop him. Sherlock pivoted quickly, surprised at his brother’s touch. </p><p>Very softly Mycroft said, “You already are in bed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has very little sex and a lot of romantic build up and angst between these two. This story basically follows the lives of the brother's, birth to present by way of little vignettes. The story alternates between being about their childhood and about their adult life. Some of the stories in their adult life are events that happen in the show, but not all. I tried to stay as close to canon as possible, but I did take some creative liberties.

That silly little baby was so bothersome. He never even cried or did all the predictable baby things they were supposed to do. Mycroft had read all the books and gotten more than enough speeches about how to be a good big brother, but none of it was worth anything at this point. The poor idiotic thing didn't live up to expectation, too bad, but obviously it was time for everyone else to move on. Except they didn't, and that was frustrating beyond belief. Why did everyone care about this stupid little baby "William" they called him. How quaint. And to think, the awful thing had to share a room with him, everything was so despicable with that baby around. Stupid William had to come and ruin everything, why does everyone care about William so much? Can't they see he's just a stupid baby? A stupid little slobbery thing that never says a word, just stared right through you with those big blue eyes.

He would always stare at Mycroft when he worked, like he was trying to figure out the words, the mumbles, the writing being scratched into paper. Mycroft always noticed the attention, and he wasn't necessarily pretending he was bothered by it, because it got rather annoying sometimes, but for the most part Mycroft didn't mind at all. In fact, he rather liked having another brain in the room, another set of eyes, even if they were idiotic. The easy schoolwork was tedious, and so when he was subjected to it Mycroft would take it to where William was sitting and read him everything on the page; it made the monotony a bit easier, if not to bear, then at least to manage.

Actually, the first time he did it, the first time he read to the silly little drooling baby, it was an accident, the words slipped from his mouth as if they were eager to be shared. Mycroft Holmes had never shared a thing in his life, but looking at the way the chubby little thing smiled with sharp bright eyes every time he spoke a word, he knew, unfortunately. There was nothing he would ever deny William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

 

* * *

 

 

He stared intently into the fire, trying to enjoy the cease of activities in his life, for once trying to enjoy a Christmas. Of course it was going terribly, his mind longed for activity, for use. Instead it sat whirring away, making lists, files, plans, and sorting itself, because he knew just as well as Sherlock how bad it hurt to be bored. It was almost eleven and he was on his third glass of scotch. He made himself stare at the fire, long after it had ceased to be interesting and instead had started to burn light onto his retinas. He didn't let himself look away because he knew that as soon as he did, he would look at his hands and see them shaking.

His suit was starting to become overly warm and uncomfortable, he thought about taking a walk, or sleeping. Neither seemed very inviting, he settled for letting his eyes drift to his phone, willing it to bring him something, anything. It wasn't like every terrorist cell took Christmas off as well, to expect something wasn't unreasonable. He flicked his eyes to the window this time. He could wait.

 

In a figurative way, he couldn't tell you how much time had passed when the phone buzzed. Of course he knew, 12 minutes 42 seconds, but it wasn't as if he was paying attention to that. There were things that were in his head that he always observed, but in his mind sometimes he could choose to ignore them. Sometimes.

Carefully he reached out of the phone, pausing slightly, waiting for his hands to stop shaking, waiting for the promise of some kind of stimulation to be acknowledged. With more effort than should have been expended, he stilled his hands and picked up the phone. Mycroft never felt dread, well, he never felt anything. He never assumed, no, but he also never felt a sense of foreboding. Now, as dread seeped into his skin and froze into his blood, he felt more like an Iceman than Moriarty's taunts had ever done. All the facts converged, not in to one conclusion, but many, wide and varied. He stared at the name in the screen for a moment longer before answering. It would not do well to assume. He settled his phone against his ear, took a deep breath and fell back into normality.

 

"Oh Dear Lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

 

Because there was something inside of him at knew there was nothing he would ever deny Sherlock Holmes again.

 

* * *

 

 

Chubby fingers pulled at his textbook again. Looking around he noticed that Mummy was out. How nice. He thought briefly about pushing the little thing away but decided against it. Another quick glance around and he sighed, pulling the thing --brother?-- into his lap. William's hands were in his mouth again, slobbering and being unhygienic. Teething Mummy said. Mycroft pulled them out with a stern look and began reading aloud like usual. World History this time, it was actually pretty interesting, pirates.

William was sitting very still and staring intently at the full color pictures on the page. When Mycroft began to read the description section of the page, the little brother gently started tracing the outlines with his slobbery fingers. Surprisingly, Mycroft let him. He read to the bottom of the page, more interested than angry at his brothers fascination. Moving to turn the page, he found a small hand in the way. After multiple attempts to turn the page he started to become irritated but William looked up at him with pleading, not defiance in his eyes.

Mycroft decided to test his authority while Mummy was away. Low but sharp, he near whispered, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes"

William's hand didn't budge, instead he flattened it against the page. He tried to speak but the words fumbled in his baby mouth. "Mo.. mo-oor.. more."

"More pirates?"

William shook his head violently up and down. Well, mostly up and down. Enough to understand the agreement. He let Mycroft close the book and put it to the side.

Mycroft stood, and did something he had never done, he picked William up and held him. Putting a finger to his lips he silenced the faint noises the baby was making and together they snuck into the study. Mycroft opened up the computer and brought up a search for pirates. William sat in his lap and they scrolled through pictures for hours until Mummy got home and Mycroft abruptly remembered the important work he was in the middle of, leaving his little brother to be found by Mummy.

Later that night when Mummy was telling Father the peculiar things William had been doing when she got home "...and you should have seen the way he brandished that ruler..." Mycroft couldn't help but give the faintest smile.

He thought a lot at dinner about how the coming days would be filled with pirates. Because they made his little brother happy, and there was never going to come a time when Mycroft would deny his brother something that made him happy.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft tapped his fingers steadily against the keyboard, reading e-mails and sifting through data. He sent twelve teams out to scour London for Irene Adler's body. It was amazing how many dead bodies they could find when they looked hard enough. It was frustrating though. They had been through six bodies and none of them even remotely resembling hers. A final tap brought up the latest body and seeing the description he grabbed his coat and very nearly rushed out the door, of course he didn't (Mycroft Holmes doesn't rush anywhere) but it was a close thing. He stepped into the car and had the driver take him to Baker Street. He worked silently away on his phone for a bit, organizing for the body to be delivered to St. Bart's. By the time they pulled up to Baker Street, everything was in place and a certain Molly Hooper had been coerced into working the morgue. He glanced up at his brother as the car door opened.

Sherlock slid in and sat stiffly next to Mycroft. He began tapping fingers against his leg impatiently until Mycroft sighed and put away his phone.

"What is this really about Sherlock?"

Sherlock hands stilled in his lap and he drew his eyes from the window to face his brother. He pursed his lips as they engaged in a short lived staring contest. Sherlock eventually decided to speak first.

"It is just remarkably similar."

Mycroft stared for a while before responding.

"In what way?" He asked, with a hint of surprise and confusion tainting his apathy.

Sherlock didn't respond to that, instead he broke eye contact with his brother to stare out the window. He brought a single finger up to his chest, up to his heart, and tapped once before letting it drop.

Mycroft did not miss the gesture, although the cold regret he felt upon seeing it made him wish he had. He felt somewhat responsible, because, well, because he was in a way.

Mycroft eventually reached a hesitant hand over to Sherlock's arm. Sherlock, although surprised by the gesture did nothing to acknowledge it. It was a positive sign at least that he didn't jerk away from it. As they pulled into the lot at St. Bart's, Sherlock finally spoke without turning towards his brother.

"Do you ever regret any of it? Do you ever think of how different things could've been, if maybe if you had just thought about me for once?"

Sherlock turned to hear his response, locking eyes with Mycroft again. He answered with a deep sadness that Sherlock had not known he possessed, creating a dull ache in the both of them.

 

"Constantly."

  
It was that moment as Sherlock stepped out of the car that Mycroft knew he should never have denied Sherlock anything.

 

* * *

 

 

He flipped through his chemistry books, trying to find something of interest to him. He wished he could just drop the class but it was already too late into the year. Now that he was in his first year of public school, and three years early too, he found almost all of his time taken up by schoolwork. It wasn't like he minded so much but the work became boring too often and William was very effective at distracting Mycroft.

He glanced up to see the two year old child running around with two eye patches and a sword, seeing how often he could hit the target hanging in the tree. It was quite hilarious to watch actually, and even though Mycroft would never admit it, he smiled inwardly as William slammed into the tree, full force. The boy sat stunned on the ground, blinking rapidly as he took his eye patches off and adjusted to the sunlight. Mycroft, actually glad to have an excuse to put the boring chemistry down, walked over to William and helped him up. He stumbled around a few times before falling to the ground again, and Mycroft, unwilling to admit he was concerned, picked William up, checking for signs of concussion. He couldn't really tell but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"You might have a concussion, that means you can't go to sleep for a while."

William threw his hands up into the air and nearly yelled his response. "Pirates don't need sleep!"

He threw his hands down quickly and all of a sudden looked like he was going to be sick so Mycroft took him back over to his spot and sat down, that way they would have a perfect view for when Mummy got home and Mycroft could move William off of him before she saw.

He stroked at William's curls absently as he read out of the chemistry book. He didn't get much done since the little boy kept asking questions at every other word, but it was  the kind of progress that Mycroft preferred.

Everytime William threatened to drift off, Mycroft pulled his eyelids open and said, "You're an idiot"

William just smiled at that and asked another odd question about the chemistry book.

 As Mycroft read and talked with William, he knew that with that insatiable and beautiful curiosity that belonged to his brother, there would never be a question he would deny William the answer to.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stepped out of the car as well, instructing the driver to wait. He walked a few steps behind Sherlock. There were so many worrying things about his brother, the fact that the Adler woman could do this to him, was the most worrying of all. The slumped posture, the slight tremble in each breath. What must the aftermath have looked like when he lost someone he cared about exponentially more? What must it have been like when Mycroft pushed him away and didn't look back?

Mycroft could think of no words to ease his brother's pain because he did not understand the pain itself, in fact he rarely understood anything about his brother. Sherlock was not just another chess piece that moved in odd direction, whose logic could not be found. No, Mycroft had learned a long time ago, although unfortunately not soon enough, that Sherlock was operating on a completely different board than the rest of the world.

By the time they reached the entrance to the morgue, they were standing even with each other. Mycroft laid a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"You're an idiot you know."

Sherlock gave the faintest hint of a smile, and put his hand over the one on his shoulder.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft let his hand fall and pushed open the morgue door, he went through first, leaving Sherlock to catch up. His words drifted behind him as he spoke.

"The same as it always has, Dear Brother."

That put a real smile on both their faces, a temporary reprieve from the duty at hand. Sherlock felt something in fact, something that he had buried so deep that he never thought he'd be allowed to find it again. For the first time since he was a child, he allowed himself to feel comfort at his brother's words.

Mycroft saw, of course he did, but it did nothing to soften the ache of what he had done. Sometimes seeing the people you wronged happy was more about remembering all of the times you had made them sad and alone and afraid. So instead of feeling any pleasure from his little brother's reaction, there came a regret for everything he denied Sherlock and a promise to never do it again.

 

* * *

 

 

The four year old jumped up and down on the bed. On Mycroft's bed actually. There should have been a certain exasperation there on Mycroft's part, and maybe there was, but mostly it was fear of getting caught.

William always thought his brother worried over the silliest things. If anybody got in trouble it would be him. What he didn't seem to understand, and what Mycroft would not tell him until it was too late, was that Mycroft was afraid of getting caught, but not of getting in trouble.

William giggled as Mycroft groggily sat up and motioned for him to stop. Instead of obeying, because that would be boring, he continued to jump. Finally awake Mycroft pulled the little boy down by his hips onto the bed next to him to keep him from jumping. William squirmed but only just a little. Mycroft tried to attempt a smile, but it was contorted by the freshly awake state of his brain.

"What, pray tell, has caused you to be awake at this hour, and more importantly, to wake me?"

William gave a blank stare back, obviously absorbing information but not understanding.

"In other words....." He trailed off, leaving Mycroft to pick up the thought.

Mycroft continued while trailing his fingers through his brother's thick curls.

"In other words, why are you awake?"

William gave him a sigh that was composed of unadulterated melodrama. He flung his arms back and laid his entire body over his brother.

"The world's awake so I'm awake" he explained petulantly as if were the most obvious thing.

Mycroft gave a little laugh and pushed the little boy off him so that they were lying side by side again.

"In other words...."

William gave Mycroft a stare that could've killed a lesser person.

"I'm bored but my head is too loud for me to sleep"

He rolled his head around on Mycroft's small chest with his hands to his ears. Mycroft put a hand to his brother's chest to keep him from flinging himself off the bed. William dropped his hands and stilled abruptly. Mycroft yanked his hand back, afraid that he had hurt his brother.

William grabbed his hand and settled back on his chest, barely whispering.

"No, it's all right."

Mycroft's sense of dread eased a bit and he settled in a bit closer to his brother. William still had his head rested on his brother's stomach but he had turned so that he laid on his side and he could see his brother's face.

"You'll have some fun tomorrow William"

The little boy scoffed.

"Of course I won't, tomorrow is a Tuesday, Tuesdays are always boring."

Mycroft racked his brain for a reason why this might be but decided that the most practical approach was to ask.

"And what makes Tuesdays different from the other days?"

William paused, considering the effect his answer would have. He decided to tell the truth for once.

"Because you won't be here and everything is boring when you're not here."

Mycroft knew what it was like to have a mind that never stopped, to not have anyone that can help. It isolates you, makes you feel alone. It's painful, especially when you are young and you don't understand. He looked at William and he could tell that in his own way this visit was a cry for help that the stubborn child would never voice.

"I'll be here tomorrow William."

The little boy's mild curiosity was overridden by the sheer excitement in his voice.

"Really?"

Mycroft smiled at the rare emotional display.

"Of course, I will always be there when you need me to."

William snuggled even closer and wrapped one of his arms around Mycroft in a half hug. It didn't even take ten minutes before the child's breathing evened out and his muscles relaxed. Mycroft ran a hand through the curls on his brother's head and tried to drift off himself. His words stayed in his head though, he had never said something so maudlin before but he could not refute what he had said. He would always be there for his little brother, and he would never deny William something he needed.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft let Sherlock walk past him to the examination table. He stood behind his little brother as usual, just barely pressing his side against Sherlock's, like he always did. It was an apology that he knew Sherlock would never accept, but he did it anyway, it was the one thing he allowed himself to hope for.

Sherlock gave Molly a greeting that sounded as close to an apology as he had ever heard his brother give. Only, as he thought about that, he realized it wasn't quite true. Sherlock had given one apology, just one. Unfortunately, at the time, Mycroft thought it meant something far from what it actually did and so he didn't listen. How long had it been? How long had he been trying to fix it? The answer to both happened to be the same, far too long.

Mycroft could feel his brother trembling. Not that anyone would be able to see it, not with that coat, but Mycroft always knew when his little brother was upset. Their hands were shielded by the height of the table and the position at which Molly was standing. Mycroft couldn't help but think that this was good for Sherlock, after all, who better would understand the importance of appearances than the British Government himself. When Molly pulled the sheet back, there was a nearly imperceptible sharp intake of breath from his little brother. Mycroft brushed his hand against Sherlock's, offering a touch of comfort. He was nearly surprised, and only nearly because Mycroft is never surprised, when Sherlock grabbed his hand for a long moment and squeezed. He was careful not to react outwardly to the touch, only tightening his grip for a second before in acknowledgement before letting Sherlock's hand fall away.

Sherlock gave his confirmation to Molly before sweeping out of the room, Mycroft noticed however, even his melodrama was lacking its usual grandeur. Molly asked him something, although he wasn't really listening. He managed a quick smile before heading after his brother, thinking that this must be really bad.  He offered the customary apology, pressing the side of his body against Sherlock's and found himself at a loss for words. The problem was that he didn't understand why Sherlock was so upset about this Adler woman. She was interesting, but interesting things come and go. What made her so special?

Mycroft resolved to stop thinking about what to say and instead think about what Sherlock needed. A reprieve, from the emotions, from the noise inside his head. Sometimes what Sherlock needed was the same thing Mycroft did every once in a while, a cigarette. There was a time when Mycroft not only wouldn't have offered, but would have taken it away from Sherlock if he tried to procure one. Now though, he holds one out in offering, silently telling Sherlock what he thinks words wouldn't be able to say. There is an understanding there finally, the recognition in his brother's eyes. In that moment, Mycroft realizes that nothing ever has been or ever will be destructive enough to deny Sherlock having it.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was always the thought that William wouldn't handle the other children well. He really had only ever been exposed to Mycroft, which meant that he was generally disappointed with everyone else he encountered.  

William didn't know how his big brother did it, he always knew just what to say to people, no one ever said anything mean to him. All the other stupid children laughing at him and the awful teachers calling him 'Willy'. No, it just wouldn't do. Mycroft could fix it, he could fix anything and everything. Mycroft isn't like the other children, he is smart and he is only ever annoying sometimes.

Mycroft sat on the bench at the edge of the park. Normally he watched William run around for the afternoon while Mummy was out but today the little five year old didn't want to run. He sat on Mycroft's lap and licked his ice cream cone while his big brother wiped away all the drips with his handkerchief. Mycroft couldn't help smiling at the faces William made when he got 'brain freeze' as they say.

"Ouch"

"Hmm, yes. I believe the colloquial term is brain freeze. The blood vessels contract when left exposed to the cold for extended periods and the nerves around them send signals directly to those in your brain, causing a temporary, but painful headache."

William thought for a moment and stuck his thumb against the roof of his mouth, serving to make an even bigger mess.

"So I just have to warm it up then, right?"

"I suppose."

When the headache finally abated, William smiled up brightly up at his brother. A little bit too sweetly and too long. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the little boy.

"What do you want William?"

William finished off his ice cream cone and wiped his fingers primly before turning to look up at his brother again.

"I want you to not call me that anymore."

Mycroft studied his brother, for less than a second before wrapping his arms around the boy and threading his fingers through the curls on the back of his head.

"What's wrong?" he asked protectively and then in an almost whisper, "What have they done to you?"

"All the other children are mean and stupid. They call me names and all the teacher call me Willy." He spat the name as if it were a black curse. "They push me around on the playground and they laugh at everything I say. Nobody sits with me at lunch, which is fine," he hates how harsh the words are, but he is angry, "But they squirt their juice at me and talk about me to their friends."

Mycroft stroked his brother and pulled him even closer. His eyes were hard and his mouth was set in a thin line. His little brother watched his face and was worried by how far away the gaze looked. Without taking his eyes off whatever he was looking at he addressed his brother.

"What do they call you?"

The boy grimaced and looked down. It took a couple moments but eventually he spoke, voice in a choked whisper that was barely audible.

"Freak"

Mycroft tensed up and pulled his brothers head down so it rested on his shoulder. He spoke in a fierce whisper.

"You are not a freak."

"Then what am I?"

"Loved."

"By who?"

"By the people who matter."

The little boy threw his arms around his brother's neck and let himself smile just a bit through the tears.

"You really mean that?" He sniffed.

"Without a doubt." Mycroft breathed. "But why do they call you... Willy?"

His little brother sighed deeply. "Because they are all of very low intelligence. There are three Williams in my class and the teachers can't keep track of three whole Williams." He said the last part in an exaggerated tone. "So they call me Willy, and the other William, Will."

Mycroft loosened his grip on his brother and thought for a moment. He could talk to the teachers and Mummy, but the kids would be harder. No, a more permanent solution was necessary.

"What should we call you then? And no pirate names."

His smile dropped a little at the ban on pirates names, but the it came back full force as he told Mycroft his idea.

"How about Sherlock?"

Mycroft smiled at that too.

"A wonderful idea, but might I ask what made you decide upon using your middle name?"

Sherlock sat back on Mycroft's knees and leaned off until the only thing keeping him from falling was his big brother's arms.

"It's better that way, legally I mean."

Mycroft didn't believe a word of that.

"And...."

For the first time, his brother actually looked a bit abashed. Sherlock took a deep breath and decided he would tell his brother the truth.

"Well, because you're so good at making people like you and do what you want. Sherlock is a really special name, just like Mycroft. I'll never have to share that name with anybody or get called silly nicknames. And... And I want to be just like you Mycroft."

Mycroft gave a small smile and scooped his brother up in his arms and held him tight. He gave him a small kiss on the forehead and hoisted him up to carry him.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's go home and tell Mummy. The important parts anyway."

Mycroft carried Sherlock all the way until they could be seen from the house. The whole time he walked with Sherlock laying his head against his shoulder and giving random facts about the people they passed, he realized, he would never deny Sherlock something he wanted.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock took the cigarette suspiciously. It was painful to watch him so distrustful of everyone of his actions. Still angry too, every vitriolic word that Sherlock said, while outwardly mocked the sentiment of others, was really a well aimed blow to himself. However, while they were aimed at himself, he was not the only one who felt them, as Mycroft suspected was Sherlock's strategy.

Mycroft listened to his brother's scathing words, but only just. Listening was an area that Mycroft had a lot to make up for, after all those years of pushing Sherlock away. He played along, he always did. There was no way to win the board Sherlock played on, but if he followed his lead, at least he wouldn't get left behind.

Sherlock tilted his head in the direction of a crying family standing just outside the doors to the morgue. "Look at them, caring. Do you ever think there is something wrong with us?"

Mycroft made his words sharp and hurtful, a subtle warning, because he knew that both of them did care, and that it was better to not.

"All lives end."

There was a prick of something sharp deep inside him which had no right to be felt. Sherlock tensed, apprehensive towards his brother's words and the real intention behind them.

"All hearts are broken"

Sherlock gave his hand a sharp squeeze until his fingernails began to draw blood from underneath the skin of his own palms. Even for Mycroft that was low. Although, he found that some part in him was still desperately trying to believe that Mycroft's words were not cruel, but instead showing his own weakness, exposing himself.

Who broke your heart Mycroft? It certainly wasn't me. You never would have let that happen, you're too good at making it all go away.

Sherlock let the unspoken thoughts drift about in his head, turning away from his brother to hide his confusion, completely aware that his brother could easily read his entire thought process off his face. Yet as he looked  he saw Mycroft doing no such thing. In fact, he was very deliberately focusing on something that was very much not Sherlock.

Sherlock had a great mental capacity but he found himself unable to think of anything but a single question towards his brother's actions, and utterly lacking any reasonable conclusion. It was a question he had been asking for almost his whole life, but it had never felt as tender and sore as it did now. The solitary interrogative bubbled up inside of him blood trying to push its way from a heart that had stopped beating, more than anything he found himself wanting to know, 'Why?'

Sherlock attempted to push himself away from his sentiment and towards Mycroft's voice. He felt fleeting resentment for always being forced to be apathetic and stoic, not being allowed to care or feel passion. He spent so much of his childhood trying to impress Mycroft but he was never good enough, all because he cared, because he loved.  He found Mycroft's words entering into his thoughts, the present easily melting with the past, infusing a level of trauma into the nights events that Sherlock would have rather left untouched.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." The same words Mycroft uttered all those years ago. There were others back then, of course, ones that should've been more hurtful, but Mycroft was sure that those were the ones that Sherlock blamed for tearing everything apart. If Sherlock wanted damage, there was more than enough material that Mycroft could use to get the job done, and he was a strong believer in the saying that sometimes you had to break something all the way before it could be fixed. A plan lay unused in his head, a rare occurrence, but he was sure that it would not wait for long. These actions on Sherlock's part showed him that it was all just beginning.

Sherlock found that he didn't even blame Mycroft for his words. It was part of the game, the endless board that they kept dancing on, waiting to push each other's kings in a corner. Waiting to be able to shout checkmate. He always admired his brother's underhanded way of being able to turn openly maudlin topics into disguised cruelty. Somehow, even with his irritation at his brother always openly mocking his sentimentality all the time, he did rather appreciate Mycroft's ability to push things into the realm of comfortable cruelty they were familiar with when things got too uncomfortably close to caring.

Mycroft brushed against his Sherlock's hand and gave it a small squeeze before turning and walking away, the warmth of the gesture belying the cruelty of his words. It was in no way an apology this time, but rather it was a retaliation. If Sherlock wanted to play this game of clandestine words and schadenfreude subtlety, he would have an opponent. Mycroft only wished that one day, Sherlock realized they should be playing on the same side. Instead, they played against each other, because no matter how much he abhorred it, Mycroft would never deny his brother the thrill of the game.

 

* * *

 

 

They walked around the block, finally heading away from that stupid uniform shop that Sherlock absolutely hated. Mycroft had taken him, declining the drive their parents offered to give. It must have looked odd to their parents, due to the fact that the brothers never did anything but argue in their presence. Mycroft had long ago decided that his love for his brother was only to be observed by the receiver. Sherlock didn't mind, it felt more special that way.

He had just turned six and it was almost time for a new year of school to start. He loved having a summer birthday, because even though he was one of the youngest in his class, it got him out of Mummy wanting to invite the school children over to celebrate. Instead it was just Mycroft, their parents, and some extended family. Tedious, but according to Mummy, necessary. She insisted on holding Mycroft's hand the whole time and Sherlock snuggled into Father for most of the social part of the night. It was funny, Sherlock always thought, how Mummy managed to breed resentment and love in them at the same time. Perhaps it was her mind, impressing her was a beautiful feeling of pride and joy, but she constantly pushed, and took for granted the harder things for Mycroft and him, like social behavior. Mycroft had long had a resentment towards her because of this, he tried so hard in social encounters, he taught himself everything he could, but she never realized how hard he tried to achieve his normal flawless execution. They would always love her though, that he knew, because she understood the things most people didn't. She hated when they fought, but she trusted them to go out together like this and behave. Their father is a different story though. Sherlock would say he is submissive to Mummy, but Mycroft just says he is smart.

It would be years before Sherlock would understand but when he eventually did, he would give a little smile at the memory.

 

Mycroft was gripping his brother's hand loosely, not saying a word. They came to the end of the block together and observed the route through the park they usually took to get home. There was a huge looking stump of a boy standing in front of the playground, as if daring anyone to come near it. He seemed to just be waiting for a fight. Mycroft, an ever so careful chooser of battles, tugged sharply on Sherlock's hand and took him round the corner.

"Come along Sherlock, we'll go this way."

They had to walk much farther to go all the way around and Sherlock was tired by the time they were only halfway home. Of course, he would never voice this, but he also knew there was not a thing he could hide from Mycroft. Moments later, he found himself being scooped up and sat down on one of the benches that lined the sidewalk in that part of town. Mycroft had one arm around his little brother's small shoulders and used the other to wipe away the little bit of sweat that accumulated on Sherlock's forehead. After that, he gave his head a little kiss and pulled away. Sherlock didn't reply, just gave his brother's leg a squeeze to get his attention. Mycroft stared at his brother and followed Sherlock's gaze to the window of the shop in front of him.

"Mycroft..."

Sherlock had rushed over and put his face in the window by now. Mycroft slowly walked up behind him and layer a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in awe as the small dog behind the glass tried to lick his hand. Mycroft smiled at his brother's reaction, but said nothing.

"May I have it Mycroft?" He said in such a hopeful voice. Much quieter he pressed himself against his brother and whispered, "Please?"

Mycroft hated himself in that moment for having to deny Sherlock something. He gently told Sherlock that Mummy would never consent with only the reassurance that it was not something he would always have to deny Sherlock.

The hurt on both brothers face was something only visible to each other.

"Can I at least name it?" He asked, the pleading fading into disappointment.

"Of course." Mycroft answered, happy to be able to grant his little brother something after all.

Sherlock gave a small little smile before sliding into deep thought. He stared at the little puppy, running around in front of the window, wagging his tail, jumping everywhere and claiming it all as his own. He thought about the smooth mahogany fur that glinted red in the sun, and the confidence the puppy exuded. After a couple minutes had passed he turned to look at Mycroft again.

"I want to call him Redbeard." He said confidently, smiling at the little bundle of fur.

Mycroft squeezed his brother's shoulder. "It's perfect." He whispered.

Sherlock's smile faltered for a second and he looked away.

"Come on Sherlock, let's go home now." Mycroft urged.

Sherlock stood right where he was.

"I'm tired My, I don't wanna."

Mycroft said nothing about the nickname. He faltered as well, not wanting to over exert his brother, but coming to the conclusion that they did indeed need to get home soon.

"We really must be going though, you'll just have find a way."

Sherlock gave a sly smile while tugging the hem of Mycroft's coat to get his attention.

"You could carry me you know."

Mycroft sighed, eventually bending down and swinging Sherlock so that he sat on his hip.

"You really are getting too big for this."

Sherlock just smiled into the crook of his brother's neck and breathed deep. Finding that he would be content to stay like that forever. Maybe with the addition of Redbeard as well.

Mycroft just walked steadfastly on, trying to reach the house before dark with a six year old on his side and thinking in a far away sense that there really might be some things he ought to deny Sherlock.

* * *

 

 

Sherlock looked at Mycroft on the plane, each word cutting deeper into his mind. He had always known what his brother was capable of, and how unwise it was to provoke him, but he thought that it might be different for once. It was a lesson that he learned a long time ago, anything you can say, Mycroft can say better. So now here he was, listening to the soft anger he had caused in his brother, wondering why he kept pushing when what he wanted was always in arms reach.

"All it took was one lonely naïve man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Every word did not crack him, they did not make him stronger, they merely reinforced and cut their way deeper into his thoughts, into his heart. His tone towards Mycroft was purposefully aloof, but without malice. He wanted to retaliate but the last thing he needed was more harsh words.

"You should really screen your Military Defense people more carefully."

Confusion appeared on Mycroft's face for less than a second before descending into carefully controlled anger.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man Sherlock, I'm talking about you."

There was a second, when Mycroft paused, almost unsure of his words which was rare enough for Sherlock to notice.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I drove you into her path, I should've known." His tone was almost pleading and his eyes were filled with resignation, all the anger had been left and looking at his big brother, Sherlock knew that to Mycroft, it had never really belonged in the first place. Sherlock looked at him and saw something beyond the anger, sadness. Mycroft  still thought that he had failed his little brother, he thought that the words were what Sherlock wanted, he was trying. After all the hurtful words to cut deeper, those words of such intense sadness broke something inside of him.

Sherlock took a step forward, towards his brother. A million things raced through his mind all at once, confusion must have been etched on his face. There was one thing that stood out though, one thing that he was very painfully aware of. More than anything he wanted to wrap his arms around Mycroft, he wanted to say that he was sorry. Not for messing up Mycroft's plan, but for all the grief he instilled in Mycroft. He wanted his brother to hold him and run his fingers through his hair, he wanted Mycroft to tell him that everything is going to be all right. He wanted Mycroft to lean in close to his ear and smile while he whispered 'You're and idiot Sherlock'. He wanted it to be just like old times.

His hand raised upwards the tiniest amount as he tried to control the crushing pressure inside of him, every second was harder. He took another step towards his brother, tilting his head and assessing Mycroft. There was a brief expression that allowed itself to be seen on his face. His expression was one Sherlock could only describe as 'yes'.

Sherlock took one last step so that his arm was next to his brother's side and they were close enough to see every detail in each other's faces. There was a second where Sherlock thought he might just apologize, he might just try, but then there was another voice. An outside voice that not so much ripped sense into him as sealed it away, leaving it to fester and gnaw inside, closing off that moment of time. The outside voice was speaking the meticulously toned words of Irene Adler.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock dropped his hand and spun around to face her, acutely aware that she probably just stood here and watched, interpreted, and waited for the prime moment to intercede. Either that or she was jealous, he found that one could never really know with Irene Adler.

He also knew that this distraction was just putting off the final word between him and Mycroft. Somehow though, even knowing the inevitability and pointlessness of it all, he found himself all right with that.

And Mycroft, far from disappointed, finally found a reason to hope. He knew what he saw  those eyes, and he knew that when Sherlock asked him the same question he asked so many years ago, he would give him more than the denial of his last answer.

* * *

 

 

Mycroft and Sherlock stood in Sherlock's room together. Mycroft helped the seven year old pull his clothes on and finished with a kiss to the forehead. Sherlock wrapped his small arms around his brother.

"Happy birthday Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled down at his brother.

"For now, yes, yes it is."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile as he hugged his brother tighter. Mycroft laid his arms around Sherlock as well. They stood like that in silence for a couple of minutes before  mycroft looked at his watch and broke them apart.

"Ready?" He asked

"Ready." Sherlock confirmed.

Mycroft strode out the door with Sherlock close behind, muttering something about being too idiotic to put his clothes on by himself. He glanced at Mummy darkly and Sherlock threw the same look to Daddy, both of them received sympathetic smiles cast their way. Hours of pleasantries passed and the two brothers kept up a constant façade of masked hate for each other quite well. Mycroft did it because he thought it would be the only way he could love his brother in peace, Sherlock did it because that's what Mycroft did. Sometimes they would glance at each other while no one was looking and give each other a subtle smile before launching into a bitter debate or pretending to ignore each other.

Long after the presents were opened and cake was had, the guests finally started to depart. Even their parents' normally impenetrable hospitality was wearing a bit thin, and they were more than open about their exasperation with the bickering boys. Well, Mummy more than Daddy. Mostly he just looked at the boys with a smile from behind his wife, like he knew it was all fake, when of course he couldn't possibly know. That was the thing about Daddy though, Mummy was always one to debate with and make vitriolic remarks around without her becoming angry or hurting her feelings. While that was nice, it got a bit tiring, especially with the show the brothers always had to put on. Daddy was a different story, he was always humble and sweet beyond belief, and even though he was not as intelligent as the rest of the Holmes family, he was wise beyond his years. He was a people person, even though he would tell you he wasn't. He could always tell when something was wrong just by the way people acted, how they looked, or what words they chose. Mycroft was fascinated by it and he studied Daddy endlessly. It was never a skill that Sherlock was particularly interested in, nor was it something that he was accomplished at.  

It was the one thing he didn't bother to be like Mycroft in. The funny thing about their fighting was though, even with their inherent lack of people skills, no matter how into the fighting they got, both of them stayed away from sore subjects. Mycroft always elected to bring up his brother's incompetence and Sherlock always liked to pick at Mycroft's weight. Neither of them were the least bit insecure about those topics. In fact, Mycroft had been relatively skinny since his teenage years, and even before that too. Sherlock only made fun of him because compared to the small child, Mycroft's steady and healthy diet along with a good amount of muscle, made him tower over Sherlock. Mycroft made fun of Sherlock's intellect only because it seemed so pitiful compared his, when really it was soaring above everyone else's. It was a silent agreement that this was how they would always fight.

By the time the last guest drained out of the house, their parents were exhausted. Mummy gave all of them a quick kiss on the head before heading to bed. Daddy stood next to the door in the study, watching Mycroft bring all of his newly received gifts to his bedroom. He gave a simple goodnight to his oldest son as he closed the door to his room and leaned down to grab Sherlock before he could run off.

"Sherlock, there's something I want to show you, come with me."

He held the little child's hand as they walked to the study, quickly and quietly as Daddy had silently instructed. Daddy pulled a small volume off the shelf and sat down on the couch, swinging Sherlock into his lap.

"I thought you might like this, it was my favorite book as a child. Treasure Island. It's a pirate book you know."

Sherlock took the book delicately and flipped through the pages slowly, a small smile flickering across the page as he skimmed the words. Daddy stared at him for a moment as if unsure about something before speaking again.

"Do you love your brother, Sherlock?"

Sherlock wanted to say yes at first, of course he loved his brother, but he hesitated. Mycroft probably wouldn't like it, he was always hiding it, making them fight. Although that was mostly Mycroft's love for him, and he was really only hiding it from Mummy and the awful strangers that were always over so it wouldn't hurt that much and even though Mycroft never said it, he knew he was always supposed to tell the truth. Daddy stared patiently at Sherlock, holding his hand in a loose grip. It had been almost a full minute when he finally answered.

"Yes daddy, I think I do."

Daddy gave a smile at that and squeezed his son's hand.

"Good. And does he love you?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate this time, he even prided himself in the fact that he at least managed a half truth to cover for Mycroft.

"I don't know, I've never asked."

Daddy's smile dropped and he gave a small sigh. Sherlock even began to feel unsatisfied with his response. Why had he never asked? And if Mycroft did love him, why was he so secretive about it? It was like he was embarrassed by Sherlock. That thought made him cringe, and Daddy felt it. He held Sherlock up in the air as he stood, the smile back on his face and a twinkle back in his eye.

"Well, I think he does." He set Sherlock down on the ground and squatted in front of him so that they were eye level with each other. "I also think that if you were to go to his room and ask him to read that book with you, he would really like that."

Sherlock smiled brightly for a second but then it dropped. Mycroft always insisted on sleeping in different bedrooms, he was so afraid of getting caught, he wasn't sure if he would approve of reading the book together. Sherlock was sure that Mycroft would be absolutely hateful if Mummy found out.

Sensing his concern, Daddy leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"Mummy got so tired from the party, she's sure to sleep soundly tonight. She could probably sleep through the end of the world."

He pulled back and smiled, finally letting Sherlock rush off to Mycroft's room, mostly worry free.

He didn't even bother to knock as he rushed in, causing Mycroft to look up from his book and make a worried noise. He swung his legs off the bed and rushed over to where Sherlock was, intending to rush him out the door with a scolding, fake of course. Sherlock put his arms out to stop his brother and brought his finger up to Mycroft's lips to silence any protest.

"It's okay, Mummy is fast asleep, Daddy told me she wouldn't wake up for the end of the world."

Mycroft sighed looking relieved and stricken at the same time.

"And what of Father?"

Sherlock hesitantly told him what happened, limiting himself to facts with no additional speculation. Mycroft could read people in the way Sherlock could not. He took it well, just sighed one more time. The little boy held the book out expectantly and Mycroft took it and set it on the bedside table. He hauled the boy up onto his him and swayed them until their foreheads touched. Slowly, he lowered them to the bed with Sherlock resting on his lap with his head against Mycroft's shoulder. He picked up the book and leafed through the pages, looking quizzically at his brother when he was done.

"Surely you could read this by yourself by the age of seven years, one would think that school was teaching you something." He joked lightly.

Sherlock curled himself into his brother's warmth and sighed too, trying to make that same perfect sound Mycroft had managed.

"Of course I can read it, but I'd rather do it here with you. Surely it is not a hardship for someone who just turned 14. They must teach you some social skills in that awful school of yours."

They both smiled and Mycroft began to read, letting his voice become part of the words and transporting the two little boys to a very different place.

"Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearing of the island, and that only because there is treasure not yet lifted, and so, I take up my pen..."

A little over an hour later, Sherlock's breathing evened out and his wiggling stopped, having lent himself to sleep. As he put the book down, Mycroft knew that he should make the boy go back to his own room, but instead he rested a hand on his sleeping head and turned out the light.

A thought crossed through his mind as he ran his hand through the thick black curls, one that was equally terrifying and reassuring. One little stray thought that told him he was never going to be able to deny Sherlock the love he deserved.

* * *

 

The last traces of adrenaline were still flushing out of his system, making his senses a bit dull. He looked over at the extraordinary man next to him and couldn't contain his laugh. That morning when he first met the plain army doctor, he never expected this, he had expected him to turn out like all the others. Police lights flashed in the distance, or they might have been close, everything was kind of blurred. Figures skirted at the edge of his vision and sounds danced across his ears, never really staying still. That whole night had been purely exhilarating, and here they were, a man who almost died, and a man who killed that night, giggling. Sherlock offered up Chinese food, knowing full well that it was only because it was one of the foods that he always ate by himself because Mycroft was so damn picky. Something caught at the back of his throat at that name, like cold fury with maybe a little blush of warmth. But mostly just anger. As John tensed beside him, he knew what was coming, the meddler had come to meddle again. Carefully he put on a mask of knowing nonchalance and strode up to the sleek black car that was masqueraded as part of the black fabric of night, off handedly saying something to John to disguise the tension in his voice.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?"

Mycroft smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. He glanced at John for a second, but it seemed he lost interest for he turned back to Sherlock. The younger brother cast a dark glance at him.

"What are you doing here?'"

He nearly spat the words, and yet Mycroft didn't give the slightest hint of annoyance or hurt. He supposed his brother would be curious about John but Mycroft kept his eyes locked on Sherlock. He frowned the smallest bit and looked down. Sherlock might not have been good at interpreting people but he knew his own brother, and he knew that his little head dip was not embarrassment so much as shame. There was a smile that Sherlock had to force down at that. The idea of Mycroft feeling embarrassment was near ludicrous, he didn't care what others thought, but he did care what he thought of himself, and he cared about Sherlock, that much was evident.

"As ever, I’m concerned about you."

There was a tiny amount of sadness in that statement, hidden enough that nobody else could possibly see it, a secret between two brothers. Sherlock purposefully didn't let his voice soften, Mycroft wouldn't have appreciated that, but he did let his eyes soften, just a bit, so that when Mycroft looked up again, he found himself caught in them. They stared at each other for less than a second.

"Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’."

They both knew that concern was not the right word, but neither would ever admit it, would they? The contempt festering between them had spread its roots so that the damage spread far beyond what could be repaired with words, and neither of them were willing to attempt anything beyond that.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

The same question he always asked.

"Oddly enough, no!"

The same answer he always gave. Well, not always. There was a time Mycroft could remember long ago when he knew Sherlock would have answered with a yes. But that time had long passed, stained from the fights that turned from façades to reality.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

Sherlock would never have to point out what they were both thinking. Because they both knew. They told themselves the same thing all the time, the words never really left their heads. _I will suffer if we continue this fight._

"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock felt nearly as incredulous as he sounded. Mycroft was the only reason he ever said any of those mean things, he chose Mycroft's happiness over Mummy's. Now, Mycroft was trying to tell him that he upset her. "It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft." He spat.

He had forgotten John was there until he spoke up, asking about Mummy.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?"

Sherlock held back a sigh. He could explain Mummy, that was easy wasn't it? But what was Mycroft. A brother, a friend, an enemy, an archenemy, the only person he had ever loved? How do you explain that to someone you've just met? Eventually Sherlock settled for brother. That was the easiest thing he supposed.

"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft."

Of course Mycroft noticed the hesitation in his voice. He always noticed everything and it was bloody annoying. He gave a little 'go ahead' smile, and it was just too goading for Sherlock to resist actually.

"Putting on weight again?"

There the smile was again, he wondered if John could see it. Sometimes it seemed like Mycroft and Sherlock operated on a different language than everybody else.

"Losing it, in fact."

Sherlock had to force himself to scowl, because he was really just letting a fleeting moment of happiness wash over him, just like old times.

John spoke again, clearly phased by that night's events.

"He’s your brother?!"

There was a nearly invisible tense between both brothers. Mycroft seemed to be inspecting the handle of his umbrella intently so he was clearly no help. Sherlock actually felt that John didn't suspect what he and his brother really had, but reinforcement of the idea couldn't hurt.

"Of course he’s my brother."

Mycroft flicked his eyes up to look at Sherlock but didn't lift his head. John seemed intent to press the matter however.

"So he’s not ..."

Sherlock snapped his head from his brother's gaze to look at John. There was no way he could possibly know. They were extremely careful to keep everything buried, one man couldn't take one look and see. It just wasn't possible, surely Mycroft wouldn't have let anything slipped when he had his little meeting with John. He braced himself for the accusation anyway, but maybe his response did end up coming out a bit snappier than intended, or warranted.

"Not what?"

By this time, Mycroft was staring thoughtfully at Sherlock and it bothered him just a bit how carefree his entire demeanor suggested he was. Although judging by the way John was flushed with embarrassment, he probably should have been more calm as well.

"I dunno – criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock gave a highly disparaging look at his brother, trying to counteract the smug grin he knew he would be receiving.

"Close enough."

And here they were, back to the banter. It felt much better than it should have.

"For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

It was such a complete lie and they both knew it. Sherlock gave an exasperated grin before turning to John.

"He is the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

Mycroft gave the most wonderfully exasperated and melodramatic sigh that was so perfect. Sherlock hated him and his stupid perfect sighs. He turned to his brother looking marvelously aloof. The two brothers, always trying to outdo one another.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

Sherlock could tell that Mycroft smiled a bit as he turned and walked away. When John finally caught up with him they headed to the Chinese place.

  
  


They sat at the table in amicable silence for a while before John spoke up.

"I'm guessing you and your brother don't get on that much."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated eye roll, that much they had made obvious hadn't they? He tilted his head back and spoke in irritated tones.

"Mycroft is such a girl."

"How do you mean?"

Sherlock smiled.

"He loves clothes, men, money, and unnecessary drama."

John smiled too.

"None of which you like I'm guessing."

"I like clothes. Especially coats. I've got lots of coats."

John looked like he didn't even know what to say to that, so they just ate in silence for a while instead.

 

Mycroft watched from the back of the car on the long drive back to the office. He had some intense negotiations going on in Asia at the moment, but he thought he might look into a little something he had been planning in Africa.

 

When Sherlock and John got home, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read the message, half of him wanting to laugh, and half of him angry. He chose to laugh. It said,

 

I am not a girl.

M

  
He pulled out his computer and surfed through the latest news, almost knowing what he was going to find and yet unsure of exactly what to look for. Eventually though he saw there was a story about a much needed civil war that had broken out in Marli because of anonymous funding that was sent to the rebels. The official declaration of war happened one minute after they had gotten home. Sherlock couldn't help quirk a smile at Mycroft's peculiar demonstration of his listening skills. Maybe one day things would be right between them after all. Sherlock had a thought that he had been having a lot lately, the one where he asked himself at what point he should stop denying Mycroft forgiveness, and the hope that the time would come soon.

 

* * *

 

 

The day had begun with the sweet smiling boy running into his room as he pulled his shirt over his head. Mycroft eyed his brother curiously and swung him onto the bed, smoothing Sherlock's shirt down and getting a soft giggle in return. Sherlock composed himself and tried to stare solemnly at his brother, but he just ended up with another smile on his face. Mycroft straightened his tie and turned to face his brother.

"And just what are you smiling about dear brother?"

"You."

Mycroft looked over his shoulder at the little boy on the bed. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, attempting to look pensive, before sliding himself off the bed and over to Mycroft. The older boy threw his bag over his shoulder and leaned down to pick his brother up. Sherlock held his arms wide and swung his legs over Mycroft's hip. Sherlock planted a small kiss on his forehead and smiled.

"I love you My."

Mycroft smiled. Normally he would be upset if anyone else had called him that, but Sherlock was not anyone else.

"The sentiment is returned, brother dear."

Sherlock rested his chin on Mycroft's shoulder and stared thoughtfully at the wall as Mycroft grabbed his schoolbag for him as well.

"What does 'ostentatious' mean Mycroft?"

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "That's what Mummy called me the other day."

Mycroft swung Sherlock off his hip and pushed him out the door.

"Well that you most certainly are. Now," he paused and looked at his watch "We need to get going, petit frére. We can't be late."

Sherlock wasn't satisfied with his answer so he stomped down the hall and into the study. Mycroft stood silently in the doorway and watched his brother climb the ladder to the top shelf and carefully drag the Oxford Dictionary of English with him.

 

There was a concentrated silence as Sherlock flipped through a dictionary and Mycroft eyed him with a knowing smirk. A second later there was a large thud as Sherlock hurled the dictionary at his brother and stomped away. Mycroft sat and rubbed his shoulder, still smiling slightly, left wondering why he ever tried to deny Sherlock anything, it never worked. Probably because his brother was nothing if not ostentatious.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like old times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did two pretty long vignettes instead of a bunch of short ones, just a heads up. I wanted to put a lot of detail into these.

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket, directing his concentration away from his current experiment. He had a feeling he knew who it was, but it did not do well to assume. He called John over and asked him to check his phone for him. John huffed in exasperation while Sherlock pretended to be so absorbed that he didn't notice the little smile and shake of the head John sent his way. The phone was pulled out more roughly than he would have liked, but John seemed indifferent when he voiced his complaints.

"It's your brother," John stated with mild curiosity.

Sherlock gave a little smile, of course it was.

"Hmm, don't care then."

John protested his apathy, trying to spike his interest with something or another about 'importance and respect'. Sherlock was perfectly ready to turn and retort, but John shoved the screen in his face before he had the chance to open his mouth, and there was something definitely off about that text. He grabbed the phone from John and stared intently at the screen, pacing across the room in a way that John would probably describe as 'violently'.

John's fervent questions pestered him absently like flies as he pushed all his concentration into decoding the message. The answer hit him with such intensity that he jumped back a little bit accompanied by an incredulous 'oh' and then a slightly more comprehending 'ohhh'. He turned and looked at John, stating that he 'had a thing' and might be a while.

He could hear John shouting questions at his back as he dashed out of the flat, shouting that he would explain later over his shoulder. The door slammed as John fell dazed back into his chair, wondering just what all those numbers could possibly mean.

There was a sleek black car waiting for Sherlock outside. He ducked inside to find a worn looking Mycroft Holmes, divested of coat and vest, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Most interesting however was the fact that the elder brother was in the midst of daintily wiping the amount of blood off his hands and forearms that could fit in a decent sized human, and looking absurdly unfazed by that fact.

"I can't wait to hear about this one," Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft smiled and let the blood soaked handkerchief fall to the floor. "It's so very dull, I'm afraid you're going to be rather disappointed with this one."

"I doubt you would have asked me here if it wasn't interesting in the least,"  Sherlock mused.

"Maybe I just enjoy your company," Mycroft smirked and clasped his hands, hovering them over his lap like the situation had any semblance of normality to it.

"I can always tell when you lie, and it seems like this is hardly the time for games. Now," Sherlock gave a wave at the blood that was currently dripping onto the floor from the tips of his brother's fingers, "Do tell."

Mycroft's cheeks gave a little embarrassed flush as he opened his mouth to begin.

"But I swear Sherlock, please keep your composure."

 

Mycroft told Sherlock about the terrorist cells from Karachi that had targeted Ms. Adler and how the surviving members had sent plans around to target Sherlock. His teams had picked up the chatter early that morning and intel had quickly picked up the locations of five hit men  stationed around Baker Street. Mycroft had been on his way to visit when one of the teams sent out to apprehend the hit men fell through and with a backup team more than five minutes away and only 72 seconds before the signal to fire would go off, Mycroft had intervened. Rather violently. With a weaponized umbrella. The man had given quite the struggle, hence the blood on the hands.

 

When Mycroft finished talking he turned to his brother whom he found was barely containing his glee. However, surprisingly, Sherlock didn't laugh. Instead he gave a small smirk.

"You just can't help but get involved when it comes to matters involving me, can you?"

Mycroft crossed his legs and delicately rested his hands on his knee. It was odd, Sherlock thought, how Mycroft could get into a brawl and come out not only unscathed but just as crisp as before, with every hair in place.

"No," he sighed and brushed a lock of hair from his face. "And I never have."

Sherlock just smiled his brother before tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling of the car.

"Well, are you going to tell me why you've brought me along? I do have a life after all."

Mycroft motioned vaguely towards the file in the seat in between them, looking unhappy.

"Why are you being so amiable all of a sudden? Normally you would've snapped at me by now."

Sherlock flicked through the file with concentration, making his response barely above a mumble. "I'm not so childish as that, and besides I'm trying too hard not to laugh at you to be snippy."

Mycroft gave a hum of acknowledgment before turning his attention outside the window, following the seconds of scenery that blended into the darkness of the parking garage next to his office building.

When the car slowed to a stop, Sherlock's head snapped up as he surveyed the outside world. "This isn't your house."

Mycroft responded, puzzlement evident in his words. "Of course not."

"That's idiotic. It's better to for you wash up at your house anyway, and it's only a couple of minutes away," a little quieter he acknowledged "and I don't like your office."

Mycroft stared at his brother for a long couple of moments before motioning for the driver to continue. Sometimes Mycroft knew that it was better not to question and just give him what he asks for.

Sherlock wore a satisfied smile for the entire duration of the trip to Mycroft's house. Mycroft looked just a tad defeated.

When they arrived Sherlock bounded up the steps, punched in the code, and used his key to get inside before the chauffeur had even opened Mycroft's door. The elder brother gave a small sigh as he attempted to step out of the car without getting blood on everything. The driver gave him a small nod and said "he's a rowdy one, isn't he?"

Mycroft smiled in his brother's direction and replied "Of many things, yes."

He began to walk away, but before he went inside, he instructed the driver to make sure the car is cleaned. To be safe.

He was greeted with his brother's shouts from down the hall as soon as he stepped foot in his house. Sherlock ran from room to room like a child, sentences only mildly coherent. He followed Mycroft into the bathroom, finally slowing his slew of deductions about how Mycroft had been living. At least he knew why Sherlock wanted to go to his house now, he just wanted more blackmail material against Mycroft.

With a sigh, he began scrubbing at the blood on his arms over the sink. Sherlock grabbed a towel too and began scrubbing his brother's other arm.

"This is quite the opposite of how it happened when we were children," he commented. Mycroft just smirked, remembering all the times he scrubbed blood, dirt, and chemicals off his brother.

Once most of the blood had been scrubbed away, Sherlock threw the clothes in the bin and shut the water off. Mycroft dried his arms off slowly. Sherlock watched his brother intently.

"About the case," Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden, "I work best at night, and this looks complicated..." He trailed off, leaving Mycroft to respond.

Mycroft didn't looked phased in the least. "Of course, whatever you need. Stay as long as you like, I've got the space." He motioned down the hall to the multiple and very spacious rooms that branched off from it. Sherlock followed him as he continued to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

"Are you sure? That seems rather nice of you." He paused and thought for a moment. "Rather too nice actually."

Mycroft scoffed and thumbed his top button open. "Have you ever heard me nag you about your sleep habits? Even once?" He kicked his shoes off and sat down to peel his socks off. "I don't, because that would be hypocritical of me. In all honesty, I end up sleeping less than you. So no, I really don't mind, and yes, I really do need you to solve this case." He dropped the socks in the laundry basket and tucked the shoes in the closet. Sherlock eyed him steadily.

"It's not like you to indulge me, dear brother." He stepped farther into the room, like a shark circling it's prey.

Mycroft again, was completely unfazed. He rolled down his sleeves, and unhooked each cuff link, placing them in a box on top of the dresser. "Try as I might not to Sherlock," he pulled his belt off and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, "In the end, I always do." He pulled off his watch and laid it next to his cuff links. "I'm just skipping the hard stuff in the middle, isn't that what you always wanted?" He motioned for Sherlock to turn around as he began unbuttoning the rest of the buttons on his shirt.

Sherlock sat down on the bed facing towards the door. He was silent for a couple beats before responding with "You have no idea what I really want." He glanced over his shoulder and was met with the sight of his half naked brother staring at him in a curious but glaring way that was unique to Mycroft. Sherlock turned his gaze away eventually, wondering how long the image of his brother's pale skin against the contrast of his tight navy pants would hold in his memory.  

He didn't turn back until he felt the light brush of Mycroft's fingers glancing over his shoulder as the elder brother walked out of the room.

"Do you ever wear anything even remotely casual?" Sherlock inquired as he followed Mycroft into the study.

Mycroft sat as his desk and dropped the file on the one he had for Sherlock. "This shirt is all cotton, and these pants are too. This is casual."

Sherlock shook his head and opened the file, a small smile playing across his face. Mycroft was impossible, but at least he had forgone the suit jacket and was probably wearing his least expensive dress shirt and pants.

Mycroft tapped away on his computer and Sherlock decorated the study wall with pictures and articles and red marker. At one point Sherlock went up to change into his bed robe, which Mycroft always kept in the second spare bedroom for him. Mycroft made tea for them both and made a small dinner plate for himself. They worked deep into the night, Sherlock finally retiring to his room at five in the morning and Mycroft working until six when he sat down for breakfast and then left for work.

He went through his day like usual, but he found it odd that Sherlock didn't text him with the solution. Mycroft decided to go home for lunch, only to find Sherlock still there and still in his pajamas, staring intently at the wall.

"Shouldn't you be out? That is how it usually goes, yes?"

Sherlock didn't break focus from the wall. "Don't pretend like you don't know."

Mycroft sighed, he found he was doing that a lot lately. "I can call John if you'd like."

"No!" Sherlock blushed slightly from the severity of his answer and the curious scrutiny Mycroft hit him with. "No," he said a little quieter. "I just thought maybe you could help me solve this one."

It was probably more of a question than a statement, but Mycroft knew he didn't really have a choice. "Of course, but I can't promise I'll be good at it, crime solving is not my fortè."

"Nor is it John's."

They both smiled a little at each other before Mycroft sat down to listen to Sherlock as he launched into a long monologue of his conclusions so far.

 

John sat in a very quiet Baker Street and decided that he didn't like it. At all. It was nice at first but he was getting more worried, and the silence seemed more threatening than anything. He took a walk after his shift at the clinic, and met with Sarah for a brief lunch date. Now he just sat reading the paper, getting more and more restless. Sherlock hadn't texted, Mycroft hadn't called, and after the constant slew of messages and slightly less frequent calls, the blankness of his inbox felt odd. He hoped Sherlock would be back soon.

 

 Mycroft left again for work after going over a couple details with Sherlock and promising to get more information while he was out. He called Anthea and left instructions for all further details pertaining to the case be forwarded to Sherlock as well. She gave her assurance and he hung up, refocusing on the rather tedious diplomatic issue at hand.

It was a late night for both of them. Mycroft had a long meeting over the phone with a diplomat from China and another from America, which at least meant he wasn't the only one tired during the conference. It was getting near midnight when he left the office and headed home, forgoing dinner all together for a couple hours rest before another early morning. He might not need much sleep, but he wasn't foolish enough to think he didn't need any.

Sherlock began shouting things at him the minute he stepped inside the door. He walked into the study only to find his little brother, still in his dressing gown, pulling a nicotine patch off his arm and throwing it into the waste basket by the desk. He took a drag of his tea before sidling up next to Mycroft and gesturing at his work. Mycroft was more than used to the casual invasions of personal space, so he paid it no mind. Sherlock filled him in, speaking in his usual fast-paced baritone. After the last little details had sped out of his mouth, Sherlock slowed up. He turned so that he faced his brother, shoulder pressed against shoulder and looked Mycroft directly in the eye for a tense moment. He then proceeded to spin away in the direction of the door.

"I sent some samples up to Bart's for them to test and I texted your minion to be on the lookout for our special rats. Now, there's nothing to do but wait, and with that, actually sleep, I suppose."

Mycroft nodded and mumbled something about doing the same. Before he could even put his stuff down however, Sherlock had bounded up the stairs. Slowly, Mycroft tidied his things, hung up his coat, and put his briefcase down. When all looked well, he made the journey up the stairs to bed as well.

Only, when he walked into his bedroom, Sherlock was lying with his ankles crossed and hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, on Mycroft's bed. He shot Sherlock a quizzical look when the younger brother finally chose to glance over at Mycroft. They said nothing as Sherlock stared resolutely at the ceiling and Mycroft slowly undressed, putting everything exactly where it was supposed to go, even picking up Sherlock's discarded robe. When he finally had his night clothes on, dark navy and silk-like bottoms with a simple button up top, Sherlock patted the spot next to him on the bed and motioned for his brother to sit.

Mycroft sat gently on the edge of the bed and swung his feet over. He laid his head back against the pillows, mimicking the position Sherlock was in.

"I have three spare bedrooms you know. Mainly so I don't have to share mine." He said, but he hardly sounded bothered by Sherlock's presence.

"Mmmm," was the only response Mycroft got.

He turned to look at his brother who was still staring at the ceiling. Mycroft felt himself staring, so he looked back up at the ceiling. “You’re going to have to text John sooner or later.”

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered by this. “How do you know I haven’t already?” He paused for a moment but before Mycroft had the chance to respond he held an accusing finger at his elder brother and answered his own question. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t stay out of my business can you?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and glanced over at his brother. “I worry about you. Constantly.”

Sherlock flipped over on his side and stared into Mycroft’s eyes. There was a long pause before Sherlock said anything. “I don’t understand.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked quizzically, turning on his side as well.

Sherlock gave a sort of frustrated sigh, as if he didn't know how to explain it, and brought a hand to his temple. “I understand things that most people don’t, I see patterns, facts, all scattered around, embedded in the world we live in. I look at a person and I see them better than they see themselves, I can read people and things and events like I can read a book. I know their intentions from the words they use and the way they hold themselves. But I look at you and I just don’t understand. Mycroft Holmes, you are a walking, talking, breathing, annoying, contradiction.” He gave another deep sigh before flipping back to face the ceiling.

Mycroft was silent for the longest time. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Why am I a contradiction? Tell me what you see.”

Sherlock glanced over at his brother, only to see that Mycroft was still facing him, hadn’t taken his eyes of him in fact. He turned to face Mycroft again, scooting closer this time. The distance they had between them at any single point could no longer be measured in feet. Their faces were mere inches apart, so close in fact that Sherlock barely had to whisper for Mycroft to catch every word.

“Because you tell me that caring is not an advantage, and yet you worry about all the time. For gods sake Mycroft, you killed a man for me. You got your hands dirty, you did legwork, because you were afraid of what would happen to me. I can think of no logical reason for your worry. None at all, except that maybe, just maybe you really do...” he paused and sucked in a breath, staring directly into his brother’s eyes. “..care about me.” he finished.

Mycroft didn't even hesitate to pull Sherlock into his embrace. He cradled his little brother against him like they used to when they were little. Fingers running through his soft black curls.

Mycroft pulled his arms tight around his brother and smiled. He murmured into Sherlock’s ear words of comfort.

“Of course I care. Of course I do. I love you, always. I was just trying to protect you. I knew one day I’d fail you, or put you in danger because caring made me blind and it made you blind, and all that would be left of you is shattered remains of the once was. I couldn’t risk that, I couldn’t risk you.”

Sherlock clung childishly to his brother, eyes shut tight, absorbing everything. He tried to make sense of what Mycroft was saying but one questioning kept echoing in his head. His eyes flew open as he asked.

“What’s changed?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and tried to answer as best he could. “Nothing,” he sighed “everything. I just missed you, missed this. I miss how things used to be. The day the bomb went off at your flat, they weren’t sure if you made it. When I got the call, I realized you were everything to me. You are the reason I wake up every morning, the reason I put up with every single imbecile in the world. But then, that wasn't long after that fight we had,” Sherlock scoffed. “Well not really a fight, but there is hardly another word for it. But we weren’t talking, I had been busy, so I wasn’t personally checking on you. So, as I was driving to see you, to make sure you were all right, I realized that if you were dead, gone forever, It wouldn’t change much. You mean everything to me and for years I’ve been treating you like you mean nothing. You could’ve died and it would have broken me, yeah, but at that moment, as things were, nothing would have changed.”

“But that’s what you said you wanted, to be able to protect me without having to care about me.” Sherlock rested his hand on the nape of his brother’s neck.

“I thought I did too. I worked toward that for so many years, just pushing you further and further away. That night, I finally reached what I had been working for, and I hated it.”

Sherlock gave a fond smile into the side of Mycroft’s head. “I knew there was something different about you that night. Something...” Sherlock hesitated to say it, “...broken.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid that it in no way can compare to what I did to you.” He tightened his grip on his brother almost possessively.

Sherlock issued a half smile as he dragged his fingers across his brother’s back.

“No. Nothing can ever really compare to that,” Sherlock pulled back to look at his brother. Mycroft’s eyes were downcast, he looked miserable for Sherlock having said that. Sherlock smiled and put a hand against his brother's face. “But I forgive you, you big dumb sod.”

Mycroft’s eyes were wide with surprise as he looked up at Sherlock. They both looked at each other with small, fond little smiles on their faces. Sherlock still had a hand resting on his brother’s side, and on the back of his neck, and Mycroft still had a hand under Sherlock’s ear, and on his shoulder.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a half second, before closing the gap between their mouths, and brushing a delicate kiss onto his brother’s lips. He pulled back almost immediately, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. Sherlock moved to get up, muttering something about heading to bed, when Mycroft laid a hand on his arm to stop him. Sherlock pivoted quickly, surprised at his brother’s touch.

Very softly Mycroft said, “You’re already in bed.”

A flash of surprise swept over Sherlock’s features, before morphing into a smile. He pulled the covers back and slid under, helping Mycroft under too. They laid facing each other, faces inches apart, looking into each other’s eyes. Mycroft could just barely make out the words of Sherlock’s breathless whisper.

“Yeah... I suppose I am.”

  
That night, they both dreamed of happiness, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt real.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the height of summer, most of the school children were either on vacation, or out playing down by the park. Sherlock liked it out in the marsh where he could study the plants and the algae. It was Mycroft’s last summer before Uni, so he spent most of his time reading under the big oak tree just beside the marsh. He like to be able to watch Sherlock run and play and take his samples. Sometimes the little boy would run over, test tube in hand and log book in the other. He would sit in Mycroft’s lap and explain everything that he had found and exactly why it was so fascinating.

Sherlock’s least favorite part of the day was leaving. He loved being down at the marsh with all his equipment and Mycroft. He knew that Mummy wouldn’t like it if she found out he was spending all his time down there instead of “assimilating with the other children” as she often put it. The only reason he really ever did go up is because he didn’t want Mycroft to get in trouble for conveniently forgetting to mention his younger brother’s daily whereabouts. That and the fact that Mycroft would tickle him into submission if he refused.

There was a cool breeze and rain clouds forming on the horizon which made the otherwise sunny day more bearable. Mycroft focused on his book, leaving his little brother to play as he liked. It was only when he looked up to find Sherlock shoving his arms into Mycroft’s face and swallowing uncomfortably that he began to regret that decision. From his elbows down, Sherlock’s arms were dripping in deep red blood, and dirt was caked deep into his fingernails and on the insides of his hands and on his elbows. Mycroft stood quickly, book forgotten as he swept Sherlock into his arms, careful to keep the bloodied and dirtied hands away from him, while Sherlock kicked half heartedly. The only thing Mycroft said on the way back was, “I can’t wait to hear about this one,” he let Sherlock do the rest of the talking.

The little boy frowned and kicked his legs one more time in a petty escape attempt, but Mycroft just held tight as they made their way back up to the house. Sherlock was silent for a while, an embarrassed flush creeping up his cheeks. Mycroft glared at his little brother until he capitulated.

“Fine. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

Mycroft nodded his agreement silently, and without smiling. Which to be fair was a difficult task.

Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed. “It’s all because of that stupid farmer, the one down the street. He was his pastures right up against the edge of the marsh, and barbed wire fences to keep the cattle in. I went to watch the cows because I just finished reading about them in that book you gave me, but honestly they are just dreadfully boring,” He sighed and flung his arm out melodramatically, “anyway, I saw the rain clouds and I didn't want you to worry, so I figured I go back up to the marsh, where you knew where I was,” Mycroft smiled down at his brother and pushed some of his curls out of his eyes, “but then, I saw some blood on the barbs along the fence and so I pulled out my magnifier to take a look. There were traces of hair stuck in the blood so I pulled my book about cattle out to compare, and sure enough, it was a cow’s hair. I figured the only way it could have happened was by a cow jumping over the fence, since the blood and hair was on the top of the barb and not the side. I was going to go look for the cow, but I think the construction workers down at the derbyshire scared the cattle with their big machines, because they came stampeding towards me. I ran and sat in the cypress tree as they went by. As soon as they left I started running back up towards you, because I was still a bit scared,” Mycroft pulled open the door to the house and took his little brother inside. He sat Sherlock on the edge of the tub and wet a washcloth under the tap.

“But not anymore?” He asked.

“But not anymore,” Sherlock confirmed, glaring at his brother for his interruption. “As I was running, I saw something weird over near the ivy bushes. I was curious so I went to see what it was, and it was a cow. Can you believe it Mycroft? I found the cow, the one who jumped the fence and got scratched. But it looked hurt, like really hurt. I think it had been laying there because it cut itself up on the barbed wire, but I also noticed that the whole path before and after it was trampled down. I traced it back far enough to realize that’s where the stampede came through. The poor cow must’ve gotten trampled by the stampede as well. I went back to check on it, thinking it must be dead, but it was still breathing. I tried to help it up, but it was bleeding badly on its side, one of it’s ribs was sticking out through its skin. I tried to set the bone back, but I had only ever read how to do it. Only on humans too. It died before I could finish.”

Mycroft had scrubbed Sherlock’s hand clean enough for him to hold a washcloth himself, so he handed one over with a reassuring smile. Sherlock seemed kind of sad as he said the last bit.

“Are you okay, petit frère?” Mycroft asked after a while.

Sherlock stopped scrubbing and turned to look at his brother, almost looking confused. “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” He asked a bit too defensively.

Mycroft stopped scrubbing as well and looked his brother in the eyes. He gave a half hearted shrug. “Everyone handles death differently,” he said softly, matter of factly.

They both returned to their scrubbing, eventually getting most of it off. Mycroft dropped the soiled cloths into the wastebasket in the bathroom and then took the bag out to the bins so their parents wouldn’t find the bloodied rags. He treated the stain on both their clothes and threw them in the laundry. It was nearly dusk when Mummy called to tell them that she and Father got caught up in a meeting at work and would be home late.

Mycroft managed to get Sherlock into the bath and then into his pajamas without much fuss. He then put himself in clean clothes. Sherlock kept complaining about being hungry, so Mycroft took him into the kitchen, lifted him up and sat him on the counter. Mycroft then set about making dinner as Sherlock rambled off random things and kicked his legs about. They ate a quick dinner and saved the rest for their parents to eat when they arrived home. It wasn’t quite time for the eleven year old to go to bed, so Mycroft asked him what he would like to do. Sherlock responded by running into his brother’s room and pulling his astronomy book of the shelf. He handed the book and ran out into the back garden, Mycroft close behind. Sherlock swept a hand out, gesturing to the sky.

“Show me the stars, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and laid down next to his brother in the grass. He pointed out all the stars and listed off facts about their brightness and color and size. He helped Sherlock trace all the constellations and explained the difference between a star and a supernova. Sherlock was yawning tiredly by the time Mycroft finished talking. He helped his brother up and ran a hand through his curls before placing his hand on his little brother’s back to guide him into the house. When they arrived at Sherlock’s door however, the little boy froze. Mycroft kneeled down to look his brother in the eyes.

“What’s wrong, little brother?”

Sherlock averted his eyes, the floor seemingly becoming very interesting. “I just don't really want to be alone tonight, not after...” he trailed off, not bothering to finish the thought.

Mycroft scooped up the little boy and held him tight. “No, of course not. What was I thinking?” Mycroft smiled and tucked his brother’s head on his shoulder. He carried the child into his room with him and laid him on the bed. Mycroft tucked the covers around Sherlock and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

He left the room quietly and closed the door. He walked into the study and picked up the phone. Eventually he decided on calling Father instead of Mummy.

Father picked up on the third ring, a worried tone in his greeting. Mycroft assured him that everything was fine, but that Sherlock was having quite a bit of trouble getting to sleep, and that if he could please be very quiet coming in, as well as Mummy, that would be great, because if Sherlock woke up, he wouldn’t go back to sleep and after his long day out playing, he really needed the sleep. Oh and dinner is in the fridge. Their father gave his assurance that neither of them would be disturbed, and his thanks for the dinner, before apologizing because he really did have to get back to the meeting.

Mycroft hung up the phone and took a deep breath before heading back to his room. He knew that either his Father understood that they shouldn’t be checked up on, or at least had sufficient reason to drag Mummy to bed instead of checking up on them. Mycroft snuck into his room quietly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock if he was already asleep. He slid into bed under the covers, and he felt Sherlock move a little to accommodate him. The little boy gave a half asleep little moan before flipping over to face the wall. Mycroft laid his head in his brother’s curls and placed a hand against his head and hip. It was late and they both had a long day, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for Mycroft to fall into a deep sleep.

Sherlock had tilted his head in just a way that Mycroft wouldn’t notice, but he could hear every single one of his elder brother’s breaths. He counted the minutes too, and after half an hour, when Mycroft’s breath had completely evened out and he was unresponsive and unmoving, Sherlock turned over slowly and pressed a soft kiss to his brother’s lips. He brought his head down to rest on Mycroft’s chest and draped his arm over his side. Neither of them moved for the rest of the night.

If you asked them what they dreamed about last night, the brothers would probably say ‘happiness’ but if they asked each other, they would say ‘you’.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you love me Mycroft?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics here of from Coldplay's "The Scientist" (which I do not own). I will be doing another chapter as sort of an epilogue to this, but this chapter should tie a lot of ends together.

It was the last day of summer for Mycroft before going off to Uni, and he planned to spend it all with his brother. Mummy and Daddy were at work, they would see him off in the morning. He packed his last shirt and shut his suitcase with a sense of finality.

Mycroft turned around to call for Sherlock, only to find his little brother standing right inside his doorway with a sly smile on his face. Sherlock had grown so much in the past year, he noted. Mycroft bent forward and picked his brother up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before setting him down again. Sherlock frowned in a way that told Mycroft he remembered that it was going to be the last time that happened for a while.

Mycroft smiled reassuringly as he fumbled in his pocket for a second before pulling out a blindfold and a set of earplugs. Sherlock’s eyes widened as Mycroft began to put the blindfold on him.

“I’ve got a surprise for you and I don’t want it spoiled by your deductions.”

Mycroft brushed his hand through the young boy’s hair. After putting the earplugs in he pulled Sherlock’s arms around his neck and pulled the boy’s legs around his waist, carrying the Sherlock on his back. The younger brother rested his chin softly in the crook of Mycroft’s neck and let his fingers drift across his nape.

Mycroft walked the boy all the way out to the Marsh before setting him down and taking off the blindfold and earplugs. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth curved into the most beautiful smile. Sitting right under the tree in the spot Mycroft always sat was Redbeard. Sherlock ran to the dog and hugged him tight, digging his hands and face into the dog’s plush fur. He looked up at Mycroft with a huge smile and what Mycroft swore were damp eyes.

He whispered, “thank you My,” with a nod of his head and settled back down to the dog. Redbeard licked and ran around playfully. Mycroft sat in his usual place under the great old oak tree and watched Sherlock chase that dog for the better part of an hour, eyes bright and his laugh echoing back across the field for Mycroft to hear and respond with a small one of his own.

The hours passed and the sun began to set, fading just below the tree line in the distance. Sherlock lay curled up next to Redbeard with his head in Mycroft’s lap. They both watched the sunset, Mycroft’s fingers wandering through his brother’s hair. Both of them were lost in thought, enjoying the feeling of each other in the way one would watch the sun set if it were to be their last.

They walked leisurely back up to the house, letting the warm air brush over them in silence. Redbeard kept a steady pace with them, following Sherlock’s trailing hand. Mycroft kept his hand on his brother’s shoulder the whole time, trying to keep back the thoughts of the coming days where he would not have that luxury.

They sat for a long time, the three of them, curled into each other. Only breaking apart when the sound of tires crunching on gravel made their parent’s presence known.

 

The next day, Mycroft placed his last bag in the back of the car and moved to hug his mother. She grabbed him under his arms and squeezed tight. For his father he offered a simple hand, but it was left forgotten as his father pulled him into a loose embrace.

He stared silently and coldly at Sherlock for a few seconds before stepping into the car and closing the door.

Sherlock had to fight the urge to run forward and hug his brother with everything he had. As if the world was ending. Well, because in a way it was for him. Everything he had ever truly known, everything he had ever truly loved, was leaving him for good. And that hurt more than anything he had ever experienced.

Sherlock sat in his room that night staring at the stars, wishing that he could just go find comfort in Mycroft’s sheets. That his big brother was there to wipe away his tears.

Mycroft’s tears still clung to his cheeks as he rounded the curve into the university parking lot. He wanted nothing more than to hold his brother tight. He stopped the car and watched the stars outside the windshield.

They both smiled the tiniest bit.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock swam in the lake next to the marsh behind the big oak tree on the weekends. Redbeard would come and curl up at the bottom of the tree and watch him, just like Mycroft used to do.

At some point, Redbeard stopped being Redbeard so much as he was Mycroft to Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The years went by and both brothers felt the loss of each other deeply. They barely saw each other anymore.

Sherlock had Redbeard to comfort him, which was the only thing he had of Mycroft. He loved Redbeard like he was his brother.

Mycroft didn’t really have anybody. He made acquaintances, sure, but they were merely for the benefit of manipulation in the political nature. More than anything, he longed for his brother in his years away.

 

It was the eve of Christmas and Mycroft had finally made it home again. Both boys had grown so much. Mycroft had just turned 21 in the fall and Sherlock had turned 14 last spring.

 

Mycroft breathed in the cool night air as he stepped from his car. It was good to be home. He walked inside and greeted his parents happily, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheeks and accepting the hand his father put on his shoulder. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

He found that he wasn’t at all surprised to find that upon entering his room, Sherlock was sitting on his knees on top of Mycroft’s bed, looking out the window. Mycroft smiled at the not so little boy as he put his stuff down. He strode over and sat on the bed behind his brother, putting a delicate hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock broke his gaze from the stars and buried his head into Mycroft’s shoulder, breathing deeply, crying quietly. Mycroft just stroked his head, not saying a word.

“I missed you so much Mycroft. Some nights I wasn’t sure if I could do it without you anymore. Put up with all the other stupid little children, listen to all the stupid adults blab away. I’m just so tired of getting called a freak Mycroft. They tell me that nobody loves me, and you know what? I started to believe them. It’s getting harder without you here.”

Mycroft listened intently, but said nothing during the entire speech. He lifted his little brother up to face him and placed a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you. I will always love you. You are my brother and nothing will ever change that. Those other children are just stupid, you said so yourself. Don’t listen to them Sherlock. Chances are, they’ll never have someone love them as much as I love you.”

Mycroft brushed his curls and they stared out the window together. It was silent for a while, with Sherlock curled against his brother, before Mycroft spoke again.

“Do you remember them? The stars? Can you still name them?”

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

“Every single one of them Mycroft. Every single one.”

He started pointing them out and listing them off, still snuggled up to Mycroft, until his words slowed and he placed his head sleepily against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft placed his chin on his brother’s head and ran a hand up and down his back, willing him to sleep.

“Goodnight, brother mine.”

There was a very faint, almost incomprehensible slur of words in response.

“G’night My.”

And then he was asleep. Mycroft laid them both back down on the bed and savored the feeling of his brother while he could.

 

* * *

  


As Sherlock grew, he thought of Mycroft constantly. It wasn’t unusual for him to do so, but as his thoughts transitioned from Mycroft’s soothing words and comforting hugs, to the shape of his lips and the delicate curve of his body, Sherlock felt something change in himself.

He was able to lie to himself for a while, but when his brother came home for Summer Break, he knew that his heart had changed. ‘I love you’ didn’t quite mean the same thing anymore.

 

Mycroft’s hands flew gracefully over the books across the shelf. He chose one carefully and tipped it back by the spine. Slowly, he made his way over to Sherlock, whose lanky form was only taking up a small portion of the great chair. His little brother visibly scooted over to make room for him to sit, and he did so, book outstretched to the dark haired teenager.

Sherlock snatched the book without preamble and flipped it between his hands. Very lightly his fingers traced the embossed words across the spine as he gave a small smirk in the direction of his brother.

“Getting sentimental brother dear?” He asked in a lightly mocking sort of way.

Mycroft smiled in his own sort of way that made you feel like he knew something you didn’t and Sherlock hated him for it. He leaned his head against his little brother and guided his hands to the right page.

_“You may imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to me. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed him through the barrel.”_

Sherlock smiled and folded himself further into his brother.  “Ah. I forgot the merits of my old favorite. Are you trying to teach me a lesson My? And from Treasure Island no less,” he smiled in a way that could almost be described as fondly. Mycroft couldn’t tell if Sherlock was feeling fond about the book or about him, as was the way with most things surrounding the enigma that was his brother. Granted, he could read Sherlock better than anybody else, but the teenager still managed to be elusive in the oddest of ways.

Mycroft pulled an arm around his brother and brought both of them back to the present.

“I tell you this because recently I’ve been working more in--”

“--Politics. Yes I know.” Sherlock finished boredly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Anyway, something I have noticed that I am sure you are bound to overlook is that manipulation can work wonders, but one slip up and you’ll find yourself in a very unfortunate position indeed.”

“Best to avoid it all together then,” Sherlock practically hummed.

Mycroft made a vague noise at that before continuing. “And here I thought you were reckless risk taker.”

Sherlock laughed and punched his brother’s arm lightly. “That’s what you get for assuming. It’s not about taking risks for me, it’s about the puzzles. The risks are just a side effect,” he managed to sound sulky at the end.

Mycroft nodded his head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Instead, they both looked out the tall windows of the study in silence with Redbeard at their feet until their mother arrived home.

As always, they promptly broke apart without a word and went in their separate directions.

 

Mycroft felt something at the base of his stomach that he couldn’t quite place as he sat in his bed by himself and stared at the ceiling. He mapped his feelings from the beginning of the day until then and asked himself what had changed. He found the answer with startling clarity, his mouth dropping open and his eyes closing halfway with surprise.

What had changed, was his proximity to Sherlock. They were only a couple rooms away, but right then, Mycroft recognized the feeling for what it was. Loneliness.  

For Sherlock was not just his brother, his other half, he was Mycroft’s everything. And somewhere deep inside of himself, something told him it wasn’t healthy. But Mycroft had stopped listening to his conscience a long time ago.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft worked his superiors for weeks just to be able to take the day off to go see Sherlock on his sixteenth birthday.

They barely talked the whole party, but according to his parents, Sherlock had gotten much more sulky ever since Mycroft had left and this was very normal for him.

Instead, they each took subtle views of each other while the other wasn't looking. Staring at each other's soft lips, delicate hands, the slight curve from the shoulders down to hips. Thinking about how nice the other's suit fit, the way it framed their sculpted bodies with precision.

Sherlock found that strangely, the thoughts didn't feel unwelcome. He actually rather enjoyed the things that were now residing in his head. He imagined his lips on his brother's, soft and pleasant, thinking about that kiss he pressed to Mycroft's lips all those years ago, unbeknownst to the elder brother. Guiding and understanding, that's how Mycroft always was to him.

Mycroft didn't really feel impropriety at the notion of having his little brother sprawled out under him, giving him soft kisses to bring that little smile to Sherlock's face. It felt more like trepidation actually. He had never had thoughts that scared him, never had ones that he didn't understand. So, with the thoughts of his brother, he was in a way, unfazed. Still, there was a lingering caution that accompanied the thoughts, because he knew that these thoughts had the power to hurt his brother like nothing else had, and he would never let that happen.

The hours passed relatively quickly when both boys were alone with their thoughts, and eventually the last guest left the house, leaving a tired looking Mummy to slump in her chair and rest with a bottle of Scotch.

Mycroft bid his farewells to his parents, and with Sherlock nowhere in sight, he stepped outside. Sherlock was standing there, under the dim porch light, looking out at the stars. The brothers only had to share one glance before they were enveloped into each other's arms.

They stayed like that for quite a while, chins resting on each other's shoulders now that Sherlock had grown to be almost as tall as Mycroft.

Mycroft absorbed everything he could about his brother in that moment. From the way the light cast a halo around his dark curls, to the way his warm heart felt beating against his own.

Some part of Mycroft knew that it wasn't right, that all of this was a very dangerous thing, it was like two halves of him were fighting, one to love Sherlock and one to protect him. Eventually he spoke lightly into his brother's ear.

"We are getting to be a bit old for all this aren't we?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't try to dispute him, because he knew it was true. But he didn't want it to end. "Do you want me to stop?" He asked in a near whisper.

Mycroft hesitated. He didn't, he knew that. However admitting so would make this game even more dangerous. He could see the consequences now, all laid out before him like tile. One day he'd fail to be there for Sherlock, and that lonely little mind of his would need something to take the pain away. Drugs, recklessness, running away. This was the moment to save Sherlock or ruin him. Mycroft felt his brother tense under him and found that he couldn't bring himself to lie to his brother. Not in this moment, not now.

With one short breath he whispered, "No."

Sherlock's shoulders fell and he slumped into his brother. "I'm gonna miss you."

Mycroft breathed deeply. "I know, I'm sorry."

They eventually broke apart, unsure of who initiated it, but not caring at that point. Neither wanted the answer to be them. Mycroft spoke, Sherlock's hand in his. "It's just a few more years. Then we can be together all we want. Can you wait that long?" The last part cake out as a sort of worried whisper.

Sherlock bit his lip and stared at his brother. "I can try," is the only response Mycroft got.

Mycroft nodded and leaned forward to press a kiss to his brother's cheek before walking off to his car. His hand resting on the handle, he realized that he missed Sherlock learning to drive. Quickly, he yanked the handle and slid into the seat, trying desperately not to think about how much more of his little brother's life he was going to miss.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft slowly climbed the stairs to 221B. Sherlock scowled at him as he appeared in the doorway. The younger brother was still in his dressing gown.

"Why do you always come so early Mycroft?" He whined.

Mycroft's face remained as impassive as ever. "Because I love inconveniencing you, brother dear."  

Sherlock scoffed at that and went to get dressed. Mycroft moved to sit in his brother's spot just as John walked in with a couple of grocery bags. He gave a surprised wave with his free hand before setting the bags down in the kitchen. John ended up in the seat opposite of Mycroft.

"You don't mind if I steal Sherlock from you for a while."

It wasn't a question. John pretended it was. "No, not at all. I'm just surprised you managed to get him to go willingly," he paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Do you mind me asking where you guys are going though?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm taking him to the symphony, we always do that on his birthday. Then I'll end up forcing him to talk to our parents so they can wish him another good year. He'll want to get ice cream after that and sit on the park bench near where our house was as children and talk about how stupid everyone else is. Then he'll call me stupid, walk off, and call a taxi using the money he pick pocketed from me at some point during the day." Mycroft finished with an air of fond resignation.

John had a look of utter surprise on his face. "It's his birthday?"

Mycroft gave an almost patronizing nod. "He does love to celebrate."

John still looked confused. "A sociopath who loves to celebrate?"

Mycroft tilted his head with an odd look on his face. "You honestly believe that our dear Sherlock is actually a sociopath?"

John furrowed his brow and tightened his grip on his mug. "And you don't?"

If John hadn't known better, he would have said Mycroft's face seemed to fall. "Unfortunately John, I am very aware that Sherlock does indeed care." The last word was said with a certain sadness that John didn't understand, but at that moment Sherlock walked in dressed in his standard suit and looked between the two men. Mycroft stood and was pushed lightly out the door by his brother who was speaking over his shoulder to John.

"Just remember that everything he said was probably a lie."

And then the door was shut.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was seventeen when Redbeard died. He told himself it wasn’t the most painful thing that ever happened to him. He also decided he needed to get better at lying to himself.

There was a moment through his haze of grief where he wondered why it hurt so much. And then he realized, it was all he had left of Mycroft anymore who had all but removed himself from all of their lives.

The only way Sherlock could go to sleep anymore was by naming the stars, and always with tears in his eyes.

He labored through one letter to his brother. Then another. He tried calling. There was nothing. Sometime he would listen to the static at the other end of the phone and pretend he could see Mycroft on the other end, afraid to pick up the phone through his tears. It made the pain of rejection easier to bear.

He tried one last time for his brother. Sent him a letter with the only words on it being, ‘We need each other My. I need you, I don’t think I can do this alone anymore. -SH’

He never heard anything back. Being left out in the cold, shut out and alone and afraid. In that moment he should’ve hated Mycroft but he just couldn’t bring himself to blame his brother. Mycroft always understood, always knew. Sometimes he knew Sherlock better than he knew himself. Sherlock just couldn’t imagine Mycroft being this cruel to him without reason.

He began to think that Mycroft had a reason, a good one. Why else would he be doing this? ‘Maybe he knows what I’ve become.’

He waited for days, weeks, months. His parents labored trying to help him, make him smile. He knew it wasn’t their fault, after all, they couldn’t possibly know that only Mycroft could ever really ease the pain.

He slept for far too little and went without eating for far too long. He was not himself anymore. Pain and grief and utter loneliness consumed him and ate away at him, devouring him inch by inch. Things got to the point where he had nothing left anymore. Not Mycroft, not himself.

It was midnight when he slipped out of the house and onto the streets. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just something to distract him from all the pain. Something to fill the hole Mycroft had left. He slipped into the alleyways in the brick built backwaters of the city. He gave a slight gasp of relief as the pain washed out of every inch of his body for a few fleeting minutes. He couldn't bring himself to look at the sky anymore.

He stared at the used needle in his hand for a long time before turning and walking in the opposite direction of his house.

He never really did go back.

 

* * *

 

 

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry_

_You don't know how lovely you are_

_I had to find you, tell you I need you_

_Tell you I'll set you apart_

__  
  
  


Mycroft had never been more horrified with himself. He had known that this would happen. Ever since that night under the porch lights. He had seen this coming. All of it. He had a chance to prevent it and instead he chose to ruin his little brother instead. In the moments after he woke up from his coma, watching the security footage of his brother, hearing the distressed tones of his parents, he had never hated himself, or anybody for that matter, more than he hated himself in that moment.

It took another week before he was released from the hospital. He had been grazed by a bullet on the knee in a failed assassination attempt and had fallen into oncoming traffic, smashing his head against a car hard enough to knock him out for a good three months. His injuries were mostly healed by the time he woke up, but the doctors said that he would probably never walk quite the same again.

 

Sherlock never once overdosed. He actually did manage to spend a good part of the day sober too. It was just when night arrived, and the stars came out and he could never ever sleep that he needed it.

Mycroft planned it out so he’d talk to Sherlock while he wasn’t high. He had a feeling that he would end up dead if he did that. Although he wasn’t quite sure if being sober was going stop that from happening.

 

He didn’t bother to knock. He just stepped into the nasty little flat his brother had managed to get himself into. Mycroft found that he didn't really want to know how his brother was paying for it.

Sherlock looked over from his position on the couch immediately. Poised to deal with an intruder. Mycroft cringed mentally, it hurt to see his little brother living like this.

Sherlock took one long look at his brother. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, letting out a thick breath of air out his nose. He found it was rather hard to keep the tears out of his eyes.

Sherlock stood up and walked towards him, fists clenched. Mycroft felt that he deserved this and so he kept still. In one seamless motion Sherlock threw his arms around his brother and squeezed himself tight against Mycroft. He placed his chin in the dip next to Mycroft's neck and took in every detail he could about his brother.  

“You were hurt,” he said into Mycroft’s neck. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn't just leave me like that.”

Mycroft was still stunned by the turn of events. He had underestimated his brother’s love from him. The situation had become even more dangerous.

Gently, Mycroft pushed himself out of his brother’s embrace. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “What is it?”

Mycroft sighed. “We can’t do this Sherlock. We just can’t. I’m sorry.” He meant it. He really did.

Sherlock looked at him with slow comprehension and building horror. “No. But I need you. I needed you. That’s why all this happened. I can’t live without you. You said Mycroft. You said we’d always be there for each other, no matter what,” Sherlock was close to tears now, squeezing his brother’s hand. His shoulders were slumped, making him look even more broken. Quietly, even quieter than Mycroft had ever heard him speak, he whispered, “And I love you My.”

Mycroft squeezed his brother’s hand in acknowledgement. “I know, I know. But look how that love has ruined you Sherlock. Watching your life fall apart because of me once is one more time than I would’ve liked. I can’t watch this happen again. Can’t you see this is unhealthy for us? For the both of us?” He got quieter and held his brother’s face in his hands. “Love is a dangerous thing. Caring is not an advantage. It will ruin you and tear apart everything. All I have ever wanted is to protect you. Please Sherlock. Let me.”

Sherlock jerked his head out of his brother’s grasp. He walked to the other side of the room before turning back. The tears finally spilling over.

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

“I am sure that I could never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Fine. Get me into a school, I’ll go. Build me a life, I’ll live it. Just know that none of it will ever be worth it without you there with me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again and walked out.

Sherlock followed him. “I’m sorry too. If you hurt anywhere near as much as I do. I’m sorry too.”

Mycroft looked deeply saddened at this and nodded. He was about to turn to leave when Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him into a deep kiss. He found himself relenting, letting himself fall into the feeling. Too soon it was over, one of them or the other having pulled away. Sherlock barely glanced at him with his steely eyes before retreating back into the flat, leaving no room for comment.

Mycroft found as he was walking to his car that he could still feel his brother’s tears on his own cheeks.

* * *

 

_Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions_

_Oh let's go back to the start_

_Running in circles, coming in tails_

_Heads on a science apart_

  
  


Mycroft got Sherlock into Cambridge. He came to help Sherlock move in. For the first time, Sherlock meant all the bitter words he said, and for the first time they really did hurt.

Sherlock laid on his bed long after Mycroft left and deleted everything he knew about the stars. He was glad his room didn't have a window.

Sherlock lived his life in a tedium. The same routine everyday. He wasn’t really him anymore, he stopped putting up fights and being stubborn, he stopped caring about everything. He was cruel to everybody around him as if he blamed the world for his troubles. It was only a month in when someone called him a sociopath. He believed them too. Or at least he wanted too. Every waking moment for him was spent trying to get better at lying to himself. Like it was easier to pretend like he didn't feel anything than acknowledge the pain that he felt every single day as he realized Mycroft didn't want him.

 

It was four months in when the empty dorm next to him that he used as a lab got an occupant. She was an enigma in every way, and Sherlock found he quite enjoyed trying to solve her.

She was housed in the boy’s wing and when asked she said that the girl’s wing was full. She never gave many answers, always made you figure things on your own. Conversations were little to be had, but she spent quite a bit of time at Sherlock’s desk because her’s has covered in his equipment. She never showed annoyance with him, in fact she was pretty passive. She never let anyone see a side of her that she didn't want to see.

Sherlock had figured a few things out about her through observation, and some through asking. The silent observations always went better.

 

She sat with her head in her text books all the time.

“What is your name?” He asked slowly, having only just met her.

“Depends on who you are,” she said, eyes never leaving her book.

He didn't really know what to say to that so he left it at that. He looked up her name in the admittance files. It was Victoria Trevor.

 

Over the years they formed something akin to friendship, but not really. They both understood that they would never understand each other. She was snarky, psychopathic, and in complete control. Sherlock was still picking up the pieces.

 

In their third year together, Victoria asked for a favor of Sherlock.

“An old...shall we say friend of mine has asked of my help. However I think you would be better suited to the task. Her husband was recently arrested and is being faced with the death penalty. The police, as always, are lacking evidence to convict and need help,” she started stuffing things into a duffel bag, his as well as hers. “I’ve been in touch with your brother, and he said he’s fine by it. We leave for Florida in six hours.”

Sherlock found he could do nothing but nod after hearing that she talked to his brother.

“Did you pretend we were sleeping together like I asked?”

She stared him dead in the eye and with an air of seriousness said, “I informed him that we are having hot wild sex and if he is jealous then get over it because he never should have let you go in the first place.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and smiled, “You said that to him? Really?”

She grabbed the bags and pushed them out the door. “I’m not blind. In fact I’m really quite intelligent and I pity the both of you.”

Sherlock smiled at her back as she walked out of his dorm.

 

~~~~~~

 

They had been on the road for a while after getting off the plane when Victoria spoke up in a very unusual display of sincerity.

“What happened between the two of you? I saw it in his face just as much as yours how much you love each other, what happened to make the both of you bitter?”

Sherlock dipped his head down and pursed his lips with indecision. “How about this, a question for a question.”

“Fine. Answer mine first though”

“He got hurt, was in a coma in a time where I was going through a lot of emotional trauma. I thought he left me, there was no one to ease the pain, so I turned to drugs. He said that it proved how dangerous my love for him was and that he had to stop enabling,” he paused but she said nothing, only nodding. “Now, I want to know why you came in so late your first year.”

She sighed. “I was at MIT, my dream school. Everything was perfect. My dad works in a pretty high position in the CIA, and that makes his family a pressure point. My mother was killed in a hostage situation and to avoid it happening again, I was sent overseas, my name was changed, and I ceased all contact with my father.”

She turned to him, studying him. “I’ve seen your brother, I’ve even seen the way he looks at you and talks to you. You’ve got a year left at this school and then you can spend the rest of your life trying to make things right with your brother. I’d suggest moving in with him. all you have to do is make him think that moving in with him is the best way to protect you.”

“Why are you doing this?” He asked measuredly.

“Because I know what it feels like to lose someone you love. I would do anything to bring my mother back. I’m not gonna let you be this alone when you have the chance to not.”

They both sat back in their seats and didn't talk the rest of the way there.

 

Sherlock was brilliant as always, he found all the evidence needed and made good friends with Ms. Hudson along the way.

 

They both graduated on time, and Sherlock labored over how to stay with Mycroft like Victoria said. It really wasn’t a surprise when Victoria was killed by terrorists weeks later in an attempt to get to her father. Sherlock almost felt bad about exploiting her death to get to stay with Mycroft, but he rationalized that they weren’t very close and it’s what she would have wanted.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Nobody said it was easy_

_It's such a shame for us to part_

_Nobody said it was easy_

_No one ever said it would be this hard_

_Oh, take me back to the start._

 

Mycroft let Sherlock stay with him for a while. After all, it was just to protect him. That’s all he had ever wanted.

Sherlock still hadn’t forgiven Mycroft but he felt that maybe in time he could. Maybe he could fix things.

 

They stayed together for years, Mycroft getting cases for Sherlock through the help of DI Lestrade, keeping Sherlock from slipping back into drugs and making sure Lestrade knew what to look for too. He wasn’t taking any chances with his little brother anymore.

They were almost cordial in the way they lived together. Sometimes they would go out to dinner together, sometimes they would eat in or get take out. Most of the time Mycroft stayed at work until long after night had fallen. On those nights, Sherlock always stole one of Mycroft’s nicotine patches and pretended to be working on a case until his brother came home. The days he didn’t see Mycroft were the worst ones of all.

Case after case, night after night, the brother’s fit together like the puzzle pieces they were. The brother’s spent five years together, tensions easing, and sometimes pulling. But life had shown both brother’s long ago that nothing good ever lasts.

 

Mycroft had been dragged out onto a most interesting case by Sherlock on one of his days off. Though they were few and far between, Mycroft felt like he couldn’t think of a better way to spend it than watching over Sherlock.

They stumbled into Mycroft’s house, leaning against the wall in the foyer, laughing. Both brothers looked at each other, joy and tiredness spreading across their faces. Sherlock’s cheeks were tinted pink from the cold and Mycroft’s hair had been blown magnificently in every direction. They both ended up staring at each other for far too long. That sort of tension had been building between them for far too long.

Mycroft turned away and began to walk towards his room. His hand was on the knob when Sherlock called for him to stop.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft heard his brother’s tone of voice and deliberately didn’t turn around, didn’t move.

“Do you love me Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a near pleading voice.

 

Of course I do. I will always love you Sherlock. How can you think I don’t? All of this, everything I’ve ever done for you, or ever will do, I do because I love you.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, saying none of the things rushing through his head. He wanted nothing more than to hold his brother right now. To return the kiss he never got the chance to say anything about. His hand tightened on the handle. Nothing he ever felt would be more important than keeping his little brother safe.

“No,” he said and moved to open the door into his room.

“You think you are protecting me Mycroft, but you aren’t and you never will be able to, because you are the most dangerous man I’ve ever met,” he practically yelled at his retreating brother.

 

The next morning, Sherlock was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock ran off to the lab at Bart’s. He worked late into the night, shifting between meaningless things, crying, and looking for a flat. Ms. Hudson offered him a good price for a flat in London but he couldn’t afford it and he couldn’t stand the thought of going to Mycroft for help. Not after that.

He had cleaned himself up by early morning and spoken to Mike on the way out about looking for a cheaper place. Mike suggested a flatmate, Sherlock didn’t know who would ever want him as a flatmate. Mycroft was the only one who ever liked him, and he had lost him too now.

Sherlock walked around London for a while before returning to Bart’s, not really having anywhere else to go. Mike brought him John Watson. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to be happy or upset. He put on his facade of confidence and left the room quickly before anyone could notice the dread seeping into his features.

He would have to think of John like a puzzle, something to solve. That always helped. It would take his mind off Mycroft. John would be his drug of choice.

 

It was only a day later when Lestrade came in with a drugs bust on the pretence of getting information out of Sherlock, but they both knew that this was Mycroft, worrying about his little brother turning back to drugs because of him. Sherlock refused to be comforted by this.

Sherlock felt twinges of pain at too many things for his own good. Everytime he slapped on a nicotine patch or when he told John that Mycroft was the most dangerous man he had ever met.

Some part of him knew that the sooner he started forgiving Mycroft, the sooner he could forget the pain. After all, he had always loved Mycroft too much to never forgive him. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the end guys. Thanks for sticking with me all this time. Hope you enjoyed.

Sherlock wakes up with his entire body pressed up against Mycroft, from his curls that are brushing his brother’s face, to the arches of his feet that are fit up against Mycroft’s shins. For the first time since he was a child, he has no desire to get out of bed. Normally lying there, half between sleep and alertness, mind tinkering away slowly, is a curse for him. Drowsiness presents as a haze that he fights through, a precipice he happily throws himself off to keep his mind sharp. Because without his mind, he is nothing, not really.

He barely makes a sound, resists the urge to fidget, trying desperately to keep Mycroft from waking up because there is still a part of him that is terrified that Mycroft is going to wake up and realize the terrible mistake he’s made. Sherlock has been broken too many times to trust that it won’t happen again.

He breathes in time with his brother, losing himself in his thoughts, feeling warmth and pressure in a way that that feels like his chest is filling with air. It’s at least another half hour before Mycroft’s eyes peel apart slowly and Sherlock sucks in a breath. His eyes blink at the ceiling for a moment before looking over at Sherlock and giving a smile. The relief that melts through him leaves him unaware if he returned the gesture.

Mycroft presses his lips to his brother’s forehead before sliding out of bed and into the kitchen for some coffee. Sherlock flopped an arm where his brother used to be and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Eventually he got up and followed Mycroft into the kitchen where he finds his brother immersed in the newspaper.

And really, even though the seats aren’t big enough for the both of them, Sherlock manages to squeeze in next to his brother anyway, and Mycroft doesn’t say a word, seamlessly moving to accomodate. Sherlock buries himself in his brother, soaking his scent and his touch and the sound of his breathing, subsuming himself of the feeling of being utterly and completely happy.

Mycroft lays his chin on top of Sherlock’s head and curls his fingers around his brother’s pale form. After ten minutes pass and Mycroft still hasn’t turned the page, Sherlock smiles and flicks a glance up to his brother. His eyes are closed and he seems happy. Happier than Sherlock’s ever known him to be.

And that’s when he knows that he’s not the only one who doesn’t feel so broken anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

 

Sherlock looked purposefully away from Mycroft as he borrowed his brother's words, brandished them in front of Irene. Even still he could feel the unrelenting stare of his brother, trying to divest him of every secret, strip him of all his brain is worth. He hesitates for barely a second before turning and handing the phone to Mycroft, offering the closest he'd ever get to an apology from Sherlock. Mycroft took it with finesse, both the phone and the apology, and began inspecting it. Sherlock was glad to have a moment of peace away from his brother's scrutiny.

Irene was weak in the end, something he didn't admire, but not everybody, in fact hardly anybody, can live up to his expectations. Mycroft soundlessly agreed that she should be let go with no protection as Sherlock requested, and she took it as her cue to leave. Sherlock was close behind, he hardly felt the need to stay. In fact, at this point he really just wanted to be as far away as Mycroft as possible.

He was about to walk out when he felt a hand on his wrist. He turned and saw Mycroft, with as close to a soft expression as he'd ever get.

 

"A chemical defect is exactly what we are."

 

He let the wrist drop out of his hand slowly before watching Sherlock walk out of his life again.

 

___________________

 

Sherlock practically begged Mycroft to come to John’s wedding with him, except of course, Sherlock doesn’t beg.

He took Mycroft’s arm quietly and wrapped it around himself in a half dancing, half comforting gesture. Mycroft hooked his other arm around his brother and rested his chin upon Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned his face up to receive a small kiss from his brother before unspooling himself from the embrace.

“You’ll be here when I get back.”

He says it as an order, because it is.

“I thought you’d want to go back to that little flat of yours, wallow a bit and all,” Mycroft says airily, shrugging on a coat.

Sherlock gives Mycroft an unamused glance before yanking on his scarf. “You’ll be back here because you owe me for making me go to this god-forsaken wedding without you.”

“Please Sherlock, you love John, you’d gladly take a bullet for him, I’m sure you can manage a wedding.”

Sherlock pulls Mycroft into a deep kiss while wrapping his arms protectively around his brother. “I love _you_ , My.”

Mycroft gives a small smile while leaning his forehead against his brother’s. “Don’t be silly Sherlock. We both know there are far too many kinds of love to count," he sighed and brushed his brother's face. "You love him and you love me. You just love us differently, little brother.”

Mycroft gives him another small kiss before pushing him out the door.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Moriarty is dead, or mostly dead. Sherlock doesn’t trust him, shouldn’t anyway. He stands on the edge of St. Bart’s as he cries down to John and thinks belatedly that if he’s doing this to protect John, by that same logic, he’s putting his brother and Molly at risk.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, his brother can take care of himself, he knows that. Oddly though, there’s still a painful ache in him that worries so much about losing him all over again. Molly too, although he assumes that Moriarty has completely underestimated her, and chastises himself into not doing the same.

He lets out one breath of a command to John, to stop, to watch. And then he falls.

But it’s not just that easy, the easy part of all this was walking onto the rooftop. The easy part was manipulating Moriarty. The easy part was stepping up on this ledge and looking down. The easy part will be getting up when he hits the airbag. The easy part will be falling into his brother’s arms at MI5. There’s only one hard part in all of this. He must fall.

Sherlock hates the strength it takes to make himself push off a little, let his body go limp. He closes his eyes and breathes. He hadn’t thought this would be hard, it was just supposed to be executing equations.

But he falls, he does. He hits the airbag, John doesn’t see. The play performs perfectly. While it was happening, it felt like the world had stopped spinning for those few second, and everything was still. Now he sits in the discreetly armored car that’s rushing to a safe meeting spot outside of London, and the world feels like it’s spinning too fast.

Mycroft is waiting inside. He smiles, small and pleasant when he sees Sherlock. The door closes behind them and they meet for a soft kiss. Eventually they end up with their faces buried in each other’s shoulder, arms tight around necks and waists. Sherlock wants to sit in Mycroft’s lap when they go over the plans again. He wants too and doesn’t. He settles for laying his head on his brother’s shoulder when his attention isn’t actively occupied by some file or another.

The world is still going too fast, spinning off it’s axis, and Sherlock knows as his brother pushes him away into the plane, his whole world is about to come crashing down.

 

 

* * *

 

  


Mycroft and Sherlock sat curled up on the couch in 221B. The TV was playing some awful crime drama in the background. Mycroft was creating logic puzzles for Sherlock to solve and Sherlock was tracing paisley patterns against the fabric on Mycroft’s chest while he thought. The violin was out, Sherlock had been playing for Mycroft before. There was freshly composed sheets of music that Mycroft had been writing for Sherlock to play, for while he liked the logic and sound of music, he didn’t play himself.

Mycroft would jot the notes onto the paper and hand them to Sherlock to play, they both enjoyed the challenge. And sometimes Sherlock figured out the messages that were always hidden in the notes, but not always.

For right now though, they almost lethargically picked apart each other’s brains, the streetlights lighting the room behind them.

Mycroft hummed in quiet contentedness in tune to the absentminded strums Sherlock made against his violin and Sherlock smiled.

Normally Sherlock was aware of everything, the sound of the clock ticking, the scrape of tires outside, the quiet buzz of the streetlights, the way the light in the apartment changed as the traffic lights cycled. He knew intimately the way the furniture cast shadows on the wall, he knew the texture of the fabric just beneath him, he knew the feel of the sharp slide of violin strings against his fingers. These things haunted him, never let him go, he was forced to be aware of their maddening existence every second of every day.

But right here, right now, all he knew was the warmth of his brother at his side with his smooth voice and soft suit, and maybe that was the best thing of all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

    Sherlock calls Mycroft when he arrives at John’s wedding, as is to be expected. Sherlock comes as close as he ever will to begging Mycroft to come, but they had already decided it would be best if he didn’t and so even though it worries him, Mycroft gently tells Sherlock he won’t be flying over to the wedding last minute. He can feel the sadness of his little brother rather than see it, and he remembers what happened the last time Sherlock lost his best friend and Mycroft couldn’t be there. So as a last minute addendum to the conversation he leaves Sherlock with this warning too.

Mycroft knows there will be little he will be able to do to stop Sherlock from taking back drugs again once John leaves, but at least he knows he will be there in the aftermath this time.

Somehow, even without any of this being said, Sherlock knows this too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft knew his little brother well. Almost heartbreakingly so. He could see in his eyes, in every tense muscle, in the twists of his fingers how much Sherlock was hurting. He cursed John Watson for walking in and out of Sherlock’s life like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t understand. Because Mycroft understood all too well. He saw the pain and loneliness that came with losing a friend, not a lover or a brother, or even a parent or pet.  He saw it when he cradled Sherlock in his arms, when he stroked his hair, when he tried his best to keep his little brother from breaking. Saw it most when he had to pick up the pieces.

Mycroft knew about the drugs and never said a word. He let Sherlock have that. And when everything was a little too much for him, he let his little brother curl up next to him in bed for a night and try to let him ease away all the bad things. Some days it got so bad that he would carry Sherlock in the shower with him and rinse the dirt of his far too relaxed muscles.

He stroked his dark black curls at night and whispered I love you into his far too pale skin in time with the rise and fall of his chest, the blood thumping through his veins.

He knows John Watson doesn’t understand how fragile Sherlock is. Mycroft hates that he can’t have that luxury. He hates that he’s faces with the thing he loves most in the world, ready to break far too often.

When John calls him to tell him about Sherlock’s drug habit, he feels sort of relieved. He knows that Sherlock never wanted to disappoint John. And while he loves Mycroft, he also knows that Mycroft will understand why he needs the drugs in a way John never will. Mycroft thinks it’s ironic in a way, that John’s ignorance makes Sherlock better.

There’s a fake tension between them when they stare each other down at his apartment. He plays along because sherlock asks him to with slightly pleading eyes. He’s called Anderson because he doesn’t want the drugs to become a scandal and because he doesn’t want to waste anyone’s time who has a real job, especially when he knows they won’t find anything.

Everything goes as smoothly as can be expected with them. That is, until he sees the door. Sherlock has closed his door and he never did that when he wasn’t in it. It was a quirk from his childhood. He always left thinking about a million other things and never saw the point of doing something as trivial as closing the door. And when Mummy asked him too, Mycroft always secretly did it for him.

When Mycroft sees the closed door everything becomes really clear. He can see the disturbed patterns in the carpet, the dust that’s been brushed off both sides of the table. He sees a hair, black but far too long to be Sherlock’s.

He realizes that seeing these things is upsetting. His jaw is set and fingers curled a little too tightly around his umbrella. He begins to say something about the door but before he reaches it Sherlock yells at him to stop and he turns around to meet pleading eyes. Somewhere in the background he hears John admonishing Sherlock but his gaze is riveted on his little brother’s face. He looks hurt and sad. There’s something else there too, shame, he thinks.

He can see that Sherlock wants to hold him and explain everything but he’s not going to, not with John there. Mycroft says something provoking before he realizes it because maybe he’s still a little hurt, and in less than a second Sherlock has him against the wall. Sherlock slips something into his pocket and eases off Mycroft. Feeling a little dazed, he watches his little brother walk back into the living room while waiting for John to hand him his umbrella.

He turns and leaves quietly, trying to ignore the way Sherlock was biting his lip with worry. He waited until he stepped into the waiting car to unfold the piece of paper that had been slipped in his waistcoat pocket.

In elegant but scratchy writing that could only belong to Sherlock, were the words _I love you_. Mycroft smiled thoughtfully and breathed out. Whatever this was between them, he knew it was going to be okay.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  


Honestly Mycroft never thought they’d both live this long. There had been many close calls in the past couple years. He vividly recalls the brokenness he felt when he was forced to send Sherlock to his death.

The last words between them then had been those of apology.

“You always told me the West Wind would come to get me. I should’ve believed you.”

Mycroft held his little brother tightly. “No. I never meant that, never you Sherlock, never you.”

Sherlock smiled into his brother’s shoulder. He only pulled back far enough to press a soft, sad kiss to Mycroft’s lips.

Neither of them said another word, but they held each other tightly in the back of the car the entire journey to the airfield.

Mycroft’s last thought as the plane sped away was that he spent his whole life trying to protect Sherlock, but he couldn’t protect him from this. He slid back into the car and whispered _“I’m sorry.”_

But then Moriarty had shown up and Sherlock came back. And for those next few years, the going was rough but they had each other. Finally they saw the last of Moriarty and his entire web of criminals.

So now he and Sherlock spent their mornings next to each other on the couch, Mycroft in perfect posture as always with Sherlock sprawled halfway on top of him. They spent their nights making out wherever and whenever the desire overcame them. And in the afternoons  Sherlock still had his cases, and probably wouldn’t give them up until the day he died, and Mycroft still had his work of course.

Their adventures were no more tame, but they were always completed together. And if Lestrade or John or Mary ever noticed anything odd about the two of them, none ever spoke of it. Which Sherlock strongly suspected was less because they were oblivious and more because they were all still terrified of Mycroft. This thought made him smile and kiss Mycroft harder so neither of them were really bothered by it.

But in the end, neither of them had ever felt bliss like falling to sleep in each other’s arms. And though they might never speak it, both brothers were eternally grateful for what they had.

Confucius once said “Wherever you go, go with all your heart.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock and knows he had never understood what it truly meant before Sherlock showed it to him.


End file.
